Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Nonsense
by FlamingRavenclaw
Summary: A compilation of bad attempts to make you trip, freak you out, or break your feelz. If it isn't good enough to stand alone, it will be added to this collection. Trigger Warnings: if you have any serious triggers, please don't read it. If you are looking for great literature, please don't read it. MCYT; Poofless; Merome; Vikklan; Crack Ships. I will ruin everything for you.
1. Woof

**A riddle/story based very loosely on the song "Woof" by Approaching Nirvana.**

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They used to call me Woof before I came here, before they dragged me in and locked the door behind me. They said that I had sad dog eyes and they joke about how I always beg them for scraps. That is a whole other story that I won't even get into right now. Nobody here understands; they just look at me with sympathy and shake their heads, holding back an eye roll and plastering on a smile whenever I insist that I am fine, that I don't need to be here. I don't have a problem – the rest of the world does. They are too strict, too rigid, too complacent, too uptight.

Nobody knows what desperation feels like. Loneliness. Need. Fear. Loss. You have never felt these things. Not like I have.

There is nothing quite like walking down a pitch black alleyway at one in the morning, all alone and in search of a friend. No, I am not a dealer. I don't have the courage or the connections to pull that off. I'm no Turq. I just need a hit, a fix, a shot, a friend.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you that all of my friends are inanimate objects, feelings, illusions. No one understands that unless they have been in this head space. You would be here with me if you knew how it felt. I am so alone when I am surrounded by people. I can only feel alive, whole, worthy… I can only feel that way when I am dead, impaired, rejected. Go ahead. Call me a trash head, a junkie, a loser. I know am I hopeless, but I can't think of a better way to live.

At least I am not friends with Krokodil, or I guess they can him Bodil on the streets now. I have that one thing going my way. I might rot my teeth, burn my lungs, scar my veins – but at least my flesh doesn't come off in sheets. At least my bones won't decay from the inside out. Yes, I am still rotting to the core, but I hide the holes well enough that hardly anyone else can see them. I am an illusion, too.

Have you ever met my friends? I hardly talk to them myself, but someone always seems to be around to keep me company. They just have a way of appearing out of the blue. And they are very persuasive when they ask me to join them.

Mitch and Nooch act like polar opposites, trying to outdo each other and trying to force me to choose a side. I can be down, I can be up, but I can never be anywhere in between. It never ends well if they meet, although I think they secretly like each other's company. Turq introduced me to them right after I finished high school. I have known them for what feels like forever.

Mitch with his profound ideas, his inner peace, his timeless wisdom. Spending time with him and his munchies always leads to an empty fridge and stretchy sweaters and waistbands. I could be the Dalai Lama if he was willing to take the time to teach me.

Nooch gives me endless energy, boundless creativity, and infinite hours in a day. Everything inside of me is on fast-forward while the rest of the world just keeps plugging along. He pulls at my limits and hollows my cheeks as hours fly by without sleep or food. Too bad he has melted all of my spoons and scarred my arms.

Isn't it ironic that their refusal to settle their differences forces me to spend time with both of them, so that I can look and act some semblance of normal? The joke seems to be lost on both of them.

Next we have Little Lachy, one of Mitch's old friends. They spend a lot of time together, and Lachy gets along with a surprising number of my other acquaintances. If it can be smoked, puffed, breathed… it if can cloud your mind, then Lachy is your main man. It's a shame he is so hot-headed and temperamental. If you push his buttons the wrong way, you will get burned.

The only exception to Lachy's smoky domain is Icky Vikky Sticky, my sworn enemy and my exalted savior. Just take a drag and hold it to the count of three, and all of your worries will disappear, at least for a little while. Named after his obnoxiously cocky creator who plasters his name and face all over the refill packaging, I picked up Vikk after Mom started worrying about me smoking too much nicotine. She acts as if that is my biggest problem. Vikk is my most socially acceptable friend, the one I can hang out with in public without getting too many stares of disapproval. It's a shame that spending time with him is such a pain – whenever I take him anywhere, his gooey blood always stains my jeans and drowns my cell phones.

And who could forget the Bac? No one can have a party without him, whether or not real, physical people are planning to party with you. A couple of hours, a couple of glasses, a couple of bottles later and nothing in the world matters anymore. Nothing can hurt you anymore. Everything is fine, everything is grand. The Bac is always ready to party, and so am I. I guess it's a good thing that I don't own a car anymore. I have a hard time keeping him in check: when the Bac hits 0.35%, I am more him than I am me.

Last but not least, we have Preston, my personal favorite. He is always full of laughs and great ideas, and he doesn't judge me or boss me around like some of the other guys do. Sometimes he can be disagreeable, but I love him all the same. Unfortunately, he is also very high-maintenance. Three liters of agave nectar, a bag of sugar, a saucepan, a couple of empty bottles, and a distiller… but after all of that time, money, and frustration, he still might not give you that happy high you need. He is a prude, but I am addicted to him. Does that make me the needy one in this relationship?

But none of that matters now. None of my friends can help me here, and I doubt I will ever see any of them again. I will lose this job, too, and I will have to move back home for the third time. My guilt by association with Little Lachy is enough for them to keep me in jail for twenty years, and that isn't even counting my plans with Nooch later this month. I wonder if they found his tiny baggie of sandy crystals stashed in the hole in the back of the fridge. Hopefully the stench of the Bac's collection of beer and vodka bottles and the remnants of my party with Mitch last night will be enough to throw their drug dogs off of my trail. They can only convict me for what they can prove I did.

What can they prove?

So what if I was drunk in a public park with a BAC of 0.40? So what if I make my own moonshine when I can't sleep? So what if my e-cigarettes smell like shit and I buy the refills in bulk to last months at a time? So what if I smoke a little weed in a cheap bong every now and then? My parents and the law might not approve, but none of that ever hurt anyone. None of that is illegal.

That leaves Nooch. If they meet Nooch, I can kiss my life goodbye. He never keeps his mouth shut and he melts everything he touches; he even burned a hole in the countertop and stained the kitchen ceiling yellow. My fate depends on Nooch's self-control, his willingness to shut up and stop giggling long enough for them to lose interest. They won't find any needles, but they won't find any spoons, either.

Is that suspicious?

How many people own forks, but not spoons?

Is that enough evidence?

Can they get me?

Did they find it?

Are they going to find it?

Why is this taking so long?

Where are they?

The minutes drag by like they do with Nooch around, each second painfully long and growing longer and more intense by the instant. Finally, someone opens a door somewhere and starts walking down the hallway, a set of keys clanging deafeningly in their pocket. The guard stops in front of my cell, peering in at me before she starts rattling through her keys to find the one for my door.

"Robert, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, stop looking at me like a kicked puppy. You look like my mom's cocker spaniel when she wants a treat."

"I'm sorry."

"Come on, let's go get your stuff. Don't let us catch you passed out in the playground like that again, or we will have to hold you for twenty-four hours."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call a ride and go sleep it off. At home this time."

"Yes, ma'am." I grab the clear bag full of the contents of my pockets and begin putting everything away, grimacing when I see that Icky Vikky had made everything in the bag sticky as hell. I squirt some green hand sanitizer on my hands and try to wipe the stickiness off on the front of my jeans, and the guard watches me warily, waiting to buzz me out the front door. "Thank you for your help, ma'am."

"Just keep your hands clean; I don't want to see you in here again."

"Will do."

"And Robert?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Get some help with your drinking problem. You smell like formaldehyde."

I nod and push the unlocked door open, hiding a grim smile as I walk down the pathway to the bus stop, planning my route back to my personal crematory. I am halfway prepared already; at least my parents won't have to pay someone else to pickle me with alcohol.


	2. Life is Short: A Poem

p style="text-align: center;"emLachlan bought a sports car,/em/p  
p style="text-align: center;"emHe only drove it once./em/p  
p style="text-align: center;"emCars can't swim like fishes./em/p  
p style="text-align: center;"emNeither could he./em/p 


	3. Endstone

**A one-shot very loosely based on the song "** **Moondust" by Jaymes Young and Mitch's parody "Endstone". This one might be kind of offensive, so please check your feelz at the door. None of my writing is meant to be a personal affront to anyone.**

* * *

It was never meant to happen this way. That wasn't how things were supposed to go. So much for a fucking vacation, right? When you think of getting away from it all, you just kinda expect that you'll come back from it, ya know? It shouldn't've been him – it should've been Preston. He was supposed to be the first one in line, he was the one who told Mitch to go first. It was all his fucking idea. He's the one who deserved this, not Mitch.

And don't try to tell me it was 'his time,' that God was calling him to sing in some cheesy, feathery, effervescent choir. Mitch fucking hated choir. That's a load of bullshit. He's gone and there's nothing but a ton of dirt and a wooden box waiting for him. And if this all-perfect, all-knowing, all-loving, all-magic God was a tenth as all-good as everyone says It is, Mitch'd be here right now. But he's not. Now would you look at that! Where's your God now, Pressy?

'But Jerome, that's so mean!' Don't accuse me of being cold-hearted. Don't talk to me about Gods and love and accidents. Don't try to tell me about friendship and kindness and forgiveness. Don't. Don't even waste your breath. I don't wanna hear it.

Ya know, you never realize how shitty your friends are until one of 'em bites the actual dust. The only decent ones are Vikk and Rob, and you know right away Rob's not really _my_ friend. He's Preston's. But at least they both tried. That's more than I can say of Preston and Lachlan. Those two just sat and stared like fucking guppies. Fish, fish, fish, right? When Vikk and Woof saw him falling, they ran after him to help. Lot of good it did, but they still tried. Not Lachlan the fucking yuppy guppy. Not Preston the prayin' piranha. Nope, they just stood there at the top of the slope and watched him go. Sick motherfuckers.

No, the other two at least tried to save him, and I about killed myself getting down there, too. Skiing was never my thing; it was Mitch's. He just dragged me along. So Rob went all try-hard-MLG-ski-pro and tried to stop him, but he got there too late. He was three-quarters of the way down before he got to him. He was the first one to see him.

I got there next. I tried to wake him up but… he was gone. Anyone could see that. I just lost it then, did some things I shouldn't've done, said some things I shoulda kept quiet about. I was watching everything from the outside, like I was seeing a moon landing on the news back in Florida. Lachlan and Rob had to pull me and Preston apart. I hope I knocked his fucking teeth out.

Then Vikk finally got there and tried to bring him back. He really, really tried. He was always the smart one. He was always in control. He shoulda been a doctor instead of hanging around with stupid losers like us. His parents must've been thrilled, giving up all those grades and scholarships so he could come play video games with his lackeys.

Someone called for help at some point and the people showed up and threw us all in a helicopter. The medics acted like they were gonna get him back for our sake, like we were little kids and didn't know how things went down. What was the point? When a guy's face is purple and blue and smashed in and his neck's barely holding his head on, what're you gonna do about it? Put a Band-Aid on it and kiss it better?

They said he didn't suffer. They said he just hit a boulder and tripped and went crunch and that was that. They said it woulda hurt like hell for a second, but then it was all over. They said he didn't feel the next half mile of spinning and flying and snapping and crushing. They said it hurt us more than it hurt him. I hope they were right. He didn't deserve that. Hardly anyone deserves that. But I can name some names.

I can't prove it, Detective, but I've got a theory. I think he planned it. No, not Mitch. Mitch liked looking at his own ass in the mirror too much to try to kill himself. No, I think Preston did this.

Who watches someone fall to their death like that and just… stands there? Who does that? It was like fucking Scar and Mufasa all over again. I wasn't watching them when it happened but I bet someone saw it. He kept poking Mitch with his ski pole to get him to go first, and I turned around to see what Lachlan was giggling at, and next thing I know, Mitch's playing fucking Wheel of Fortune down the mountainside with a broken snowboard. You tell me that doesn't look suspicious.

No, we weren't drunk. We had nothin'. Nada. We went out on the slope yesterday and everything was fine. We thought it'd just be a little icy today 'cause of the melt from yesterday. Everything looked fine. We even checked it out on the way up. Mitch was a little pissy 'cause everyone shot down his new business idea for our YouTube group last night, but I don't think anyone was mad enough over that to try to kill him in cold blood.

No, Preston's just a jealous little fucker. Always gotta be Top Dog. Always gotta get his way. He's always looking for a way to one-up everyone, and he has a hissy fit when he doesn't win. He's a sore loser and Mitch is… was just too competitive to back down from anything. Preston saw the opportunity and he took it. I bet Vikk thinks the same thing. He does, doesn't he? I knew it. I didn't think he'd say anything.

And Lachlan never pays attention to anything, so he doesn't count. I bet you fifty bucks he was laughing at his phone or his fucking camera when I turned to look at him. He never sees anything in the real world, just on his precious screens. He could be a witness, though. And he could have evidence on his camera. Did you ask him what happened? You hafta ask him. Swear you'll ask him.

That just leaves Rob. And I don't really give a shit what Rob says. You can send him down the mountain with Preston for all I care. If he was any more of Preston's bitch, he'd never pull it out. I know he's taking his side. He always does. Fuckers deserve each other. Fuck Rob.

Pffft. Why do you think I'm angry? Who wouldn't be angry?! My best friend's dead! And that goofy little motherfucker might've killed him but no one's gonna do anything about it! I'm beyond angry – I'm full-blown _pissed_! But that doesn't really matter, does it? 'Cause no one believes me, not even my so-called friends.

I never told him. I didn't get a chance. I… You never realize what you've got 'til it's gone. He nuked paradise and put up a fucking parking lot, or however that song goes. I didn't know how he'd take it, or if he'd ever talk to me again. Guess I don't hafta worry about that anymore, do I? I thought I had time… to think it all through, ya know? Now I have all the time in the world because… because he's never coming back.

You know what I really hate? That fucking Minecraft parody he did. The one about moondust. I can't get it outta my head. Just, even the snow fits, the way it was flying all through the air like gravity wasn't even a thing anymore. 'But there's nothing I can do, except bury my…' all of this. It's over. There's nothing I can do.

It's gonna be so lonely down in Florida. Sunlight has never been so depressing. The house is gonna be so empty now. It's full of his shit, but he's the only one who'd want any of that crap. Nooch can have it, I don't care. I don't want it. I'd rather have Mitch.


	4. Your Love is My Drug (Chipotlan)

**Warning: this story is not for smut-virgins or anyone who doesn't like smut or sexually explicit stories. Honestly, I don't think anyone is prepared for this level of crack. I'm sorry.**

 **This story is very loosely based on the song "Your Love is My Drug" by Kesha.**

* * *

It's the last night before my flight home and I'm on my way back to Mitch's house with my last supper. I have to make this special. I won't be back until the end of the summer and I have no way of getting my fix until then without coughing up the money to fly halfway around the world. Nothing else compares. No one'll deny that America is full of a lot of bad and horrible things, but it has some amazing things, too. It's the Land of the Free, the Home of the Brave, and the Source of Most Addictions. I'm addicted, I won't even lie. But it's not in the way that you might think.

Okay, I'll admit that I might have a problem. It's not a big problem, not really, but people might… misunderstand. They might misinterpret it if they find out, or they might blow it way out of proportion. Or they might just take all of the fun out of it. That's the worst thing that could happen. I don't really see what the big deal is. I mean, I'm not hurting anybody, I'm not bothering anybody, and I'm pretty sure that nobody even knows about it. It's nobody's business, really, but just in case someone finds out, I have to be prepared. I'm tired of hiding, but I'm too big of a coward to talk to anyone about it. Who do you even talk to about this kind of thing?

I am addicted to Chipotle. Chipotle is love, Chipotle is life, Chipotle is bae, ten out of ten, twelve days out of seven. If I had the money, I would open a Chipotle franchise down the street from my flat in Brisbane and live off of the profits and the pots of guacamole. But it isn't my love for eating Chipotle that causes problems. Everyone does that so it isn't weird. It's what goes on after one of my secret late-night-snack runs that might get me in some trouble. It's just so irresistible and it's a whole new level of hot and spicy. I don't know what Rob and Preston did that made them come up with that phrase, but I think I know where they're coming from. And it's delicious.

I always get the same thing every time I go to Chipotle: a chicken burrito with brown rice and black beans and green salsa, cheese, sour cream, and guacamole all on a flour tortilla with a side of chips and two containers of guacamole. Every single time. They don't even ask me for my order anymore, and I can just walk in and check Twitter on my phone while I wait my turn in line to pay. It seems like half of the time I have a free burrito on my rewards card. They are literally giving me free porn. It's like they know what's going on here and they ship it. They ship it _hard._

And it gets better. Today is one of those grand days where I don't have to eat with the boys, and as soon as I get back from the restaurant I lock the front door and take off for my room to have dinner with myself. Now we're finally getting somewhere. There are so many different things you can do with chips and guac or a burrito that you'd never even think of when other people are around. That's where things get interesting, like right now. So I know that Mitch is still awake doing something in the kitchen (as always), and I'm pretty sure that Jerome's asleep upstairs. My door's locked and I doubt Benja's going to come bother me at eleven o'clock at night when we've been recording all day and he has 'Game of Thrones' episodes to watch. I think I'm safe.

I turn the main light off and move the mouse on my computer so I can use that light to see. I make sure that the shades on the windows are closed and that the webcam is unplugged and I get to work. I give in and eat a couple of plain chips while I get undressed, and I can already feel it working its magic on me as I throw my clothes aside and lay my dark bath towels down on the computer chair and the floor. I bought those specially for times like this. Next, I carefully open up a big black trash bag and put my feet in it and slide it halfway up my legs to make the clean-up process a bit easier. No one can know about this. Ever. Finally, I reach for that beautiful brown paper bag. I can feel my pulse racing and my pupils dilating as the paper crinkles under my fingers, and I know that what I've been waiting for for two days is here at last. So worth it.

I carefully pull the burrito out and set the rest of my loot up on the desk for later. I gently tug back its shiny, foil foreskin on the top, making sure that the bottom half stays wrapped; this doesn't need to be any bigger of a mess than it's already going to be. The first bite sends a warm wave of pleasure through my veins and down to my already-saluting cock, the sensitive skin flushing even more once the rush of endorphins passes. The air feels unnaturally cold now, almost painful. I have to hurry. I take another huge bite out of the top of the burrito and I quickly hollow out some of the filling from the middle. I need to make enough room so that it doesn't spill over onto the floor again. The taste of chicken and beans and spices fills my mouth and the smell intoxicates my brain, and I can already feel that familiar tension growing deep in my stomach. I feel like Pavlov's dogs, drooling to the sound of a bell. I can't even eat Chipotle around Merome anymore because it just makes me hard. Still worth it.

It's time to put my plan into action. I slowly bend my cock outward so that it slides into the hole inside of the burrito, the overwhelming heat sending a powerful jolt through my body. It's so hot, so smooth, so wet… Honestly, who needs girls or guys or anyone else when there's Chipotle? Nothing can be as hot as this, except maybe another burrito with the ultra hot salsa in it. I love the chill of the sweet sour cream, the friction of the grains of rice, the burn of the peppers in the salsa, the slickness of the juicy black beans… I love it all. I can't get enough.

I push in until the tortilla starts to rip around the edge of the opening and I lay there in ecstasy until that just isn't enough anymore. I need more. I slowly, carefully pull out and push back in, over and over and over again until I can feel the gentle tickle of grains of rice falling down my calves and into the gaping bag below. I move it as fast as I dare, the tension mounting every second. The heat, the moisture, the texture, the sting, the smell, even the sound is too much. I never last long when I'm surrounded in such utter perfection. My muscles tense up and jerk violently, and I know my body is out of my control. My hips thrust themselves forward and a small avalanche of scraps tumbles down from the mouth of the burrito.

When I find my senses again, I start taking in the damage I caused this time – it doesn't seem like too much. I can feel streaks of some kind of liquid running down the end of my shaft and onto my balls, and I notice the familiar itch of rice where it got tangled up in the hair. I've seen worse. I've done it often enough that I know where the rice falls and I know how to clean the guacamole stains out of the carpet now. Wait. The guacamole. We aren't done here yet.

I shakily pull the rest of the way out and brush the rice and chunky remains into the trash bag to minimize the spread of incriminating evidence. I refold the skin of the warped burrito so that it will at least look like it's going to stay together, then I reach for the closest container of guacamole. I hear Mitch finally stomp his way upstairs for the night, probably with half of the food from the kitchen in tow. The guy has a fridge fetish, honestly. At least no one else has to touch _my_ toys. I wait for him to settle in before I pull the little plastic lid off of the delicious sauce, dipping my finger in for a quick taste before I begin.

Starting from my neck and working my way down, I slowly pour the warm, thick, green cream down my front, my muscles twitching away from the heat. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of it dripping down my skin and pooling in my belly button and running off onto the towels. Fuck Swedish massages and acupuncture. All you need in this world is a bag of Chipotle and a computer with high-speed internet access. I wait for the delicious treat to cool before I open my heavy eyes and lean over to grab the rest of the burrito. I pour the last few drops from the first container of guacamole into the giant hole at the top, noticing that it has become more like bean soup in a tortilla than a burrito. I shrug and take a bite, feeling my eyes roll back in my head in pure pleasure as all of the familiar tastes come together. Now _this_ is perfection.

I look over at the computer and carefully put my right earbud in, watching to make sure that I don't drag the cord through the river of guacamole on my chest. I click on the newest PewDiePie video and start watching, grabbing a chip and scraping some of the heavenly dip from the middle of my stomach. Yeah, I have to get on a plane tomorrow for like, more than half of the day, but if flying until my legs fall off means that I can come back to this in three months, I'd do it every day. So worth it.


	5. KFC

**If you have any triggers, please don't read this one-shot. This story is very loosely based on "The Fast Food Song" by the Fast Food Rockers.**

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It's been a while since Benj and I have had the boys down to Florida for a long weekend of food, fun, ping pong, and poking Mitch. Damn, when you stop to think about it, it's been way too long. A couple of months now, right? Time flies when you're flying halfway around the world every month and running around like a maniac every day to get videos up on time. I've been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along for a while now and I ain't just gonna let it pass me by, not when Preston managed to drag Choco along for the ride. Things couldn't be more perfect.

Noochems couldn't make it this time – not with that car repair bill of his. And Icky Vikky's at some overnight psycho Brit game convention with the Sidemen so he won't be coming. That means Lachy and Pressy are the only ones who might cause a little bit of trouble. I think Lachlan has an idea about what goes on around here after hours. He just pretends he's playing Five Nights at Freddy's and stays in his room after ten at night. That leaves Preston. If he finds out the truth, he better hope Rob can get a hold on him before he does something stupid. Heh, then again, when _doesn't_ Preston do something stupid? Speaking of stupid…

"Hey, Chocobocoloco! Wanna come take a ride with me? I've got candy." I peer into the living room to see Choco chilling on the couch, watching the other four squabble like little kids over the two PS4 controllers. That'll keep 'em busy for a couple hours. He look up at me and back at them before rolling his eyes and getting up to follow me out to the garage. If they even managed to get on _his_ nerves, you know it's gotta be bad. I stand to the side to let him pass and glance back at the other four one last time. It doesn't look like any of them noticed he left. Perfect.

"So where are we headed, good sir?" I grab my car keys off of the table by the garage and unlock the door, holding it open for him to pass. He doesn't have a clue.

"I need to get some chicken for dinner. You know what Mama Bac always says: it's only good if you can still hear it screamin'." I unlock the car doors and he heads over to the passenger side of my car, not even bothering to look back to see where I am. And they said he was smart.

"Mitch said something about-" He doesn't get a chance to finish; he's already down on the ground before his hand reaches the door. I prop the dented baseball bat back up against the wall and grab the peeling knife out of my pocket, plunging it into the side of his neck before he has the chance to wake up and start screeching. The things a Bac's gotta do to make a nice dinner for his friends…

It takes a couple minutes to drag him over to the plastic tarp on the other side of the car and clean up the miniscule trail of blood dripping from the hole in his neck. At least he didn't suffer. You've gotta give me that much. Not a lot of people would understand, but they can't say I'm cruel. With that in mind, this isn't just any ol' chicken we're making here today. Nah, we're making Kentucky Fried Chocobo, fresh outta the plane. You can practically smell the Fresca and the little bags of airline peanuts on him. Now that's quality!

I cut off his clothes and get to work, pulling on my butcher's gloves and my gas mask before I grab Betty from her perfectly centered spot on the wall, getting ready to start carving up the beautiful bird. Wouldn't wanna get caught red-handed if Pressy did something stupid. I set up my two steel bins: one cleaned and ready for the good cuts, and the other halfway full of pure hydrochloric acid to take care of the bones and the grody bits. No one wants chunks of mush or pieces of gristle in their chicken strips. That's just nasty.

It takes about half an hour to get everything prepared and cleaned up, and I toss the tarp and the rest of the bloody tidbits into the acid vat and listen to it sizzle while I dig out the funnel Mitch hid behind the mounds of boxes from the move. I line up a row of empty glass liquor bottles and carefully pour the liquid slime into them through the funnel. The acid can't eat through the glass. I top 'em all off with glass corks and put 'em in a plastic trash bag that I gently bury at the bottom of the trash can with my blood-stained butcher's gloves. This ain't my first rodeo, kids. Now let's get this bird cookin' and shakin'.

I grab the bin of fresh cutlets and carry it into the house, hearing Rob's dopey laughter and Lachlan's childish whining echoing from the next room. While I'm listening, I hear hung-over Mitch bitch about how loud they're being and Lachy starts complaining even louder about something Rob did in the game while Preston guffaws. Good, they're all still occupied. They don't even know I'm 'back' yet without Choco. I put a big pan of cooking oil on to boil while I work. Next, I wash the meat off in the sink, piece by piece, piling it up on a big glass platter by the stove. Everything's ready now: all I hafta do is start cooking. Strip by strip, I coat the chicken in bread crumbs and beer batter and drop it in the hissing, popping oil to cook. It smells like paradise. Before long, the table's set, the fake mashed potatoes and gravy are both nuked, and dinner's ready to eat.

As soon as I yell at them, Lachlan comes bounding in like an antelope, always ready for food. Preston isn't too far behind him with that dumb toothy grin. I kinda want him to find out the truth, just so I can see the look on his face. Mitch shuffles in next with his classic displeased bitch face. He still has bags under his eyes and I'm surprised he isn't wearing sunglasses inside. Someday he's gotta learn he just can't chug Fireball like Nooch can. Finally, Rob slinks in and sits in the chair next to Preston, his eyes darting around and searching for something that isn't there. When he looks over at me, I can tell he knows. He always knows. I frown at him and he looks away, not wanting to cause a scene. Good boy, Woof.

"Now _this_ is real Southern cookin'. Where'd you buy it?" Preston asks and I plaster a fake smile right on my face. Sometimes I just wanna slap this guy.

"I didn't buy it. I made it. Just now. See?" He looks over at the pans on the stove like I just told him I fondled Santa Claus or something. How does Rob put up with this shit?

"You made this?" Lachlan asks as he starts loading up his plate with everything he can reach. These guys give me no credit. They act like I'm the one who eats Hot Pockets, Spaghetti-O's, and Cheetos for every meal.

"Yep. Made it from scratch." Mitch's head snaps up and he looks over at me suspiciously, his eyes squinting uncertainly in the bright light. Great, so now he's onto me, too.

"Dude, this is freaking awesome. Where'd you learn to cook like this?" Preston asks as he takes a huge bite out of a chicken strip and passes the plate over to Mitch. Benj picks one up and examines it closely while Rob stares at him, trying not to make one of his derp faces. No wonder he doesn't play poker.

"Bruh. This makes Nando's taste like banter. You need to teach me how to make this," Lachlan pleads as he sits up to see where the plate of chicken went. Mitch put the strips in front of Rob at some point, but he won't even touch the plate. God dammit, Rob. You had one fucking job. "Yo, you've gotta eat some of this. This is… There're no words to describe this."

"Well, what can I say? It was a magical bird," I laugh and everyone but Rob chuckles along with me. He's just trying not to look at the plate of chicken strips in front of him.

"Aren't ya gonna eat your meat?" Preston asks him and I pointedly stare at him while I dig into my own sweet, tender Chocobo.

"No, I think I'll pass."

"Robert, eat your chicken. It's good for you." Preston looks offended that he'd turn it down and he leans over and puts two pieces on Rob's plate for him and passes the plate over to the twitchy Australian. Lachlan snags three more before reluctantly putting the platter back on the table, a guilty look on his face.

"I feel bad pigging out too much. Where'd Choco run off to? He has to try this."

"He went with me to the store to pick up the last couple ingredients, and when we got home he said he had a headache. I guess he went upstairs to sleep it off," I answer as I spoon some more fake potatoes on my plate. I catch Mitch and Rob staring down at their chicken again. Pfft, Canadians.

"That lazy bird," Preston mutters under his breath, dunking his chicken in the pool of gravy in his crater of mashed potatoes. I didn't notice him looking under the table until I hear a ringtone go off in my pocket. Shit. I forgot I had his phone. "Huh? Jerome, why do you have Choco's phone?"

"He left it in the car and I forgot to give it back to him." He doesn't look like he believes me. Fuck. Good going, Jerome. Good story, Jerome. Choco doesn't forget anything, ever. He's like part elephant or some shit. Fuck.

"I'm gonna go wake him up so he can grab some food before Little Lachy eats it all," Preston jokes as he gets up from the table, a note of seriousness in his voice.

"No!" Rob says a little too loudly as he gets up and steers Preston back to his chair.

"What? What do you mean 'no'? The bird's gotta eat, too!"

"Not right now! He can eat later! The poor guy has a headache so we should just let him sleep and-" He's talking too loud and too fast and even Mitch is facepalming now. Dammit, Rob. You're the worst fucking accomplice ever.

"Dude, what's wrong? You prob'ly woke him up, you're yelling so loud."

"I'm not yelling! Just… Just eat your food, Preston. Choco can get a plate later." Preston shrugs and moves to sit back down so Rob'll let go of him, then he turns and sprints up the stairs like a maniac before he can stop him. Rob freezes in place and stares after him, turning slowly to look at me as he sits back down. At least he tried.

"Hey, Jerome? He's not up here." Preston slowly comes back down the stairs with a confused frown on his face. Maybe I can still make this work.

"Really? Where'd he go?" Lachlan asks with his brows furrowed, still tearing his way through the chicken on his plate. That's when it clicked. That's when things got ugly.

"Oh my God. No…" Preston's face falls in disbelief for a second before his brain tries to convince him that he's just being crazy. His face breaks into a half-hearted grin and he pauses just inside the doorway, making sure that he keeps his distance from us. "Naw, you're joking. That can't be right." He looks around at all of us and we might've been able to pass it off if Rob didn't look like he just watched a preschooler get run over by a semi truck.

"What are you talking about?" Mitch asks as normally as possible, trying to save everyone's asses. This is gonna be fun.

"You said Choco was upstairs, but he's not, so he's gotta be down here hiding or something. Right?" The poor sap's in denial now. He knows, but he doesn't wanna admit he knows. "Jerome, where's Choco?"

"Right here," I say, watching as his face goes from confused to even more confused.

"Where?"

"Right here." I point to the middle of the table and I see everyone's eyes follow my finger. Lachlan finally stops chewing and his eyes go wide. Mitch covers his face with his hands and Rob looks like he's ready to make a run for it. He's gonna try to protect Preston when he does something stupid. How cute.

"You're lying. Choco's hiding somewhere. It's a yoke, right?" When no one says anything, a look of pure horror passes over his face. Lachlan's frozen on the spot with a mouthful of food and a piece of chicken in his hand. The other two look sick. Why can't everyone just be happy for once? Jesus. "No, you're lying. You're lying!"

"Why would I lie about something like that, Lava P? You asked for the recipe, and I gave it to you. We're all friends here. Right?" I ask and he slowly steps further back from the table, his hands behind his back, searching for the wall. I get up to follow him but Rob beats me to it. He tries to guide the shocked Preston back to his seat, only to have his hands slapped away repeatedly.

"No! Don't touch me! I'm not goin' anywhere near that psychopath!"

"Preston, calm down. We don't want any more accidents today. Okay?" Rob's trying so hard but everything he does fails miserably. I feel for the guy.

"You're all insane! You… You aren't gonna stop him?!"

"Preston, chill out, man. Please, you have to calm down."

"Don't touch me!"

"You don't hafta stay. I mean, if you don't like my cooking, I can show you the door," I say matter-of-factly and I see Mitch shrink down in his seat. A look of dread passes over Rob's face as he tries to grab Preston's arm again.

"He doesn't mean it, Jerome. He was just a little… surprised. You know how people are when they try new things. Just give him a few minutes to-"

"No! Stay the frick away from me!" With that, Preston takes off for the front door and I have no choice but to follow, grabbing a butcher knife from the sink on my way out. At this rate, we're gonna be singing that old kid's song by the end of the night: Mitch Donnell's, Mitch Donnell's, Kentucky Fried Choco, and a PeteZahHutt. Good thing we have hardwood floors instead of carpet. Easy clean-up, ya know?

"Preston, please stop!" Rob pleads one last time as he runs after Preston, his eyes widening in terror as he turns and sees me sprinting after them. "Pres-ton!" I grab the back of his blue hoodie and throw him back on the floor so he'll be out of my way. I'll deal with him later. I catch up with Preston as he fumbles with the locks on the door and yank him back by the hair, plunging the butcher knife into the side of his throat.

"We can't have our little secret getting out, can we?"

"Preston, no…" Rob whimpers from the floor, watching as I lean down to put Preston flat on his back to keep his blood from spilling out. He looks devastated and his eyes are red from him tearing up. Now that I had to kill his sweet little cactus, I can't trust him to be quiet anymore like I can Mitch and Mat. I didn't want it to end this way, but a Bac's gotta do what a Bac's gotta do.

"You should've just eaten your chicken, Rob." Poor guy couldn't even have one job. He doesn't even try to get away – he just looks me in the eye as I slice through his jugular. He convulses a little before his eyes lose focus and he stops moving. Well, now I just have to clean up this gigantic mess they made. It could've been worse: at least Lachlan didn't make a run for it, too. I head back to the kitchen to wash my hands off and I see that he's still sitting there with chewed up food in his mouth and the chicken strip in his hand. Mitch looks up from his spot on the table and sighs.

"How did it go?" he asks quietly and I shrug as I turn the faucet on and watch the scarlet drops fade from my hands.

"Meh. Not too bad. I hope you guys like burgers and steak. We'll be eatin' real good this week."


	6. The Meet-Up

We have never had a crowd like this before, especially at an unsponsored meet-up. There are more people here to meet us at the park than there were at PAX yesterday. They are stretched across the width of the park and around the corner in a long, squiggly line, screaming and laughing and dancing and jumping to get our attention. This is the first time we have all gotten together for a meet-up since we were in England, and it feels so good to be reunited at last.

We are just waiting on Vikk now. He said he was on his way fifteen minutes ago, so he should be here any minute. It's hot out today, and the fans are getting antsy and Mitch is getting bitchy. Lachlan has already started taking selfies with some of the fans and Jerome is doing a mini-Q&A with a little circle of his Benja-hoodied disciples. Preston has taken to poking me with someone's foam diamond sword, trying to get a reaction out of me. I think some of the fans are placing bets on how long it will take for me to snap; they should really be betting on how long it will take before the sword breaks from him jabbing me repeatedly in the ribs. No one else has to live with this man.

"He's here!" a red-haired fangirl screams from the middle of the line, pogo-ing up and down on the spot as she points across the street to a yellow taxi pulling up against the curb. A wave of sound crashes over the park and I hear Preston's high-pitched pterodactyl scream behind me as he starts smacking me on top of the head with his bendy sword. We walk over to the front of the sidewalk as a group to greet the last Pack member, an apologetic grin on his face as he hurriedly counts out the money to pay the cab driver. Finally, he slams the door shut and starts walking around the back of the yellow car, his hands up in the air with his palms to the sky.

"How's it going, San Francisco?! Sorry I'm late, I had to-" As soon as he makes it around the trunk of the taxi to cross the street, the driver starts to pull away from the curb. There is an earsplitting honk as a passing Hummer speeds past, swerving to avoid the front of the taxi. She must not have seen Vikk crossing behind the cab.

The scene played out in slow motion, but I never saw the smile leave his face. I don't think it ever did. One second he was standing there, waving at the crowd with both arms like the camera ham he is, and the next… he was nowhere. I hope Jerome can somehow keep the footage of the accident from getting out; no one deserves that, especially Vikk. It would have been bad if there had been a _thud_ , but the snapping and crunching was a thousand times worse. That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part of the whole thing, the thing I will never forget for as long as I live, was the stream of blood and gore that came afterward. It was like a pressure hose, starting with us and steadily moving its way along the line of fans. His blood is still hot and I can feel drops of it leaking down my cheek and running down my arms. Preston lets out a shuddering breath next to me and I feel Mitch grab onto my shoulder to recover from the shock. It takes about ten seconds for reality to sink in.

That was when Lachlan screamed.

* * *

 **A song-fic based on the song "I'll Be Missing You" by Puff Daddy. Give it a listen if you need some feelz.**


	7. Parkour (Crazy Craft)

He said it would be easy. He said it would be fun. He said I would want to do it again. This is why you never trust a cactus. Preston dragged me all the way out here to the edge of existence to try out a new parkour map he had heard about in the Hub, and here we are, standing at the corner of a very steep, very rocky cliff. He already started jumping ahead of me and he is looking back at me with a smirk on his face from about ten blocks down the path. Well, not ten blocks – more like ten jumps. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

"Come on, Robert! Live a little, you massive pleb! Just jump!" he yells with a toothy grin, his lava mob bandana billowing around his neck in the strong wind. How can he stand out there on a single block platform in a gust like this? How does he not get blown off? Why does _he_ think this is a good idea? "Ermagerd! Rob! Come on!"

"I don't know if I can…" I glance down at the massive, sprawling meadow below, spattered with cheerful flowers and peaceful mobs, minding their own business and living their lives. I would rather be down there with them than up here with Preston.

"You can! I know you can! You got away from the Bac during the last Battledome, and those jumps were a lot harder than these ones! These are just a couple three-block jumps! Come on, Rob! Don't take all day!" I can tell he is getting frustrated, but this is starting to look like a really, really bad idea now. It has to be at least a fifty-block fall down there, and I seriously don't want to fall that far. I don't want to die a terrible, crushing, bloody death down there on that beautiful meadow; I would rather just walk around and meet Preston at the end of his precious map. "Robert!"

"I'm coming!" I yell back against my better judgment, and I back up away from the edge of the cliff and get a running start toward the first block suspended out there in midair. Who in their right mind builds things like this? Since when was watching people fall to their deaths from floating blocks a rewarding career, or a form of entertainment? I make it to the first block and stumble when I touch down, wobbling precariously close to the corner and nearly falling off. "Are you happy now?!"

"I'll be happy when I meet ya at the end! Now don't take too long or I'll hafta beat you!"

"What kind of threat is that? You are going to beat me, anyway!"

"With my fists?"

"Oh." He gracefully bounds from one block to another, doing a 720-pirouette in between two of the closely-spaced blocks. Here I am, barely staying upright in this wind, and he is doing acrobatics? Sometimes I seriously wonder why I like this guy. I cautiously jump to the next block, then the next and the next. When I go to reach the fifth block, my foot slips on the edge and I tilt backward and rocket downward, falling from the sky like a flame charge in the Nether. I can hear myself screaming and Preston laughing somewhere overheard, but I can't move my body. I am paralyzed in fear, gaining more and more speed every second as the ground zooms up to meet me. This is exactly why I am afraid of heights with Preston around.

The impact happens in slow motion and I experience every second in excruciating detail. I feel my ankles snap first, buckling under the extraordinary pressure and the awkward angle of my descent. Next, my legs shatter with a deafening crunch and my right femur shoots upward into my hip, completely negating any self-control I had left. The rest is just a bloody, jumbled blur, my pelvis being pushed up into my abdomen and my ribs splintering inward, compressing and mutilating my organs before the top half of my body just explodes from the impact. The screaming stops, but I'm not sure if it is because the pain is over or because I no longer have a mouth to scream with. Nothing makes sense in those last few seconds of life.

When I respawn at the top of the parkour map, I just want to slump down on the ground, pass out, and forget any of this ever happened. I have died thousands of times since I was Created, but it has never been so gruesome or brutal before. I will never forget that death until my data corrupts. I open my eyes and see Preston bent over, staring at me wide-eyed from three blocks away, unsure of whether he should comfort me or continue his damn parkour. He does things like this, then Jerome wonders why Poofless isn't a thing. Fucking pretentious lava mob.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"Do I _look_ okay to you?!"

"Well, yeah. But-"

"No, Preston, I'm _not_ okay! Why didn't you tell me you were bringing me to a torture chamber so you could kill me over and over again?!"

"You aren't supposed to die, silly. You're supposed to make it to the end _without_ dying. That's that whole point." He looks at me like I am being a completely ridiculous idiot, like I had thought he had brought me cliff diving without any string. How can he be so smart, yet so stupid?

"Preston. You know how graceful and athletic I am. You knew I would fall a hundred times on this map. Why did you make me come?"

"I dunno. I thought it'd be fun?" He seems less sure of himself now, like he legitimately hadn't thought about how horrific this whole experience would be for me. I look down and see that bright green meadow below, the long grass fluttering gently in the breeze. I turn my attention back to Preston and he looks guilty now, like he hadn't realized ahead of time that he wasn't parkouring with Kenny. "Look, you don't hafta finish it if you don't want to. Just use game mode and coast over to the end and you can watch me die. It's fine." I sigh and catch myself playing with my hair again.

"No, I promised you that I would do this with you. You waited all week for me to finish my projects on Cosmic, and I won't go back on my word. With that in mind, is there a way to do this that is… less painful?"

"Yeah. Just use your knife. If you do it right here," he points to a spot on the left side of his sternum, "you'll get it just about every time. It still hurts, but not like crunch time when your body hits the floor like a giant, juicy cockroach. It gives you an incentive to make the jumps without making it completely over-the-top zombie-pigmen-horde painful."

"So you are telling me to kill myself, over and over again?"

"Would you rather go squish-squash like a chili pot every thirty seconds?" He looks pointedly at me and when I don't answer, he continues. "Besides, what else are you gonna use a golden knife for? If you try to battle with it, it'll just get bent and chipped. Kinda like you." He snickers and jumps out of my reach, bounding away into the distance while I try to work up the courage to follow him.

"Why do I like you so much?" I mutter to myself as I hurl myself toward the next block, my dagger clutched tightly in my hand. This is going to be the longest parkour map in the history of the program. I can hear him laughing at me already, and I can't even see him anymore.


	8. Milkshake (Noochocolate)

**Warning: If you hate sexually explicit stories or if you are a smut virgin, this is not the crack fic for you. Please close your browser window as fast as you can.**

 **This is a one-shot based loosely on the song "Milkshake" by Kelis.**

* * *

Finally! How long does it take for someone to make a fucking sandwich? Well, yet again, this is Mitch we're talking about, so it was probably a stack of sandwiches. But he is finally done!

I wait for him to wander back to his office to finish up his editing before I creep out of the sunroom at the front of the house and get to work. I find the blender and clean it out while I wait to see if he is coming back. My bare nipples are hard already. After a couple of minutes of silence, I slide out of my swim trunks and throw them over in the corner by the toaster, sighing at the newfound freedom. Who knew it would be so hard to leave home for a week? No, it's literally hard. It hurts.

I grab the big plastic gallon of milk from the fridge and the chocolate syrup, but there has to be something else. Jerome always hoards candy. He has to have some chocolate. I rustle through the cupboards and I almost give up hope when I see it up on the top shelf: a fresh, unopened chocolate Easter bunny. It was meant to be.

I quickly undress the sugary confection and wrap my lips around the ears, savoring the sweet, cool drug filling my mouth. I feel its sticky juices flowing down my chin before I remember what I came here to do – I need my chocolate milk.

The maddening sweetness overwhelms me and calls my lonely cock back to life as I pour half of the gallon of milk into the blender. I squirt some syrup down into my mouth before I add a huge swirl of it to the pitcher. A small stream of syrup missed my mouth and is now dripping down the side of my face and down my neck. I add a long line down my chest and rub it in while I continue sucking on the hard, solid chocolate bunny. I grab the lid of the blender and click it in place, preparing myself for the sugary reward only seconds away.

Wait. I almost forgot something. I snap the body off of the bunny and drop it into the blender with a splash before I carefully replace the lid and plug the cord into the wall. Every crunch and snap sends another jolt through my body and down my cock as the sweet treat gets closer and closer. The head slowly melts in my mouth until it collapses from my persistent sucking. I swallow the thick, creamy liquid with a gentle moan that echoes in the empty hallways of the Merome house.

When the blender finishes crunching its way through the mutilated bunny, I turn it off and unplug it before tossing the lid in the sink. I grab the whole pitcher of chocolate milk and take a long drink, and all of my senses are immediately overwhelmed. I need to hold it in just a little longer. This is sweet, sweet heaven.

I turn around to head outside to the sunny patio at the back of the house, and what do I find but a Bacca in a snapback cap with his arms crossed and a frown on his stubbly face.

"Dammit, Mat. Again?" Jerome mutters as he starts putting the ingredients away with his nose wrinkled. "Did you really hafta do this in the kitchen of _all_ places?" He is just jealous that chocolate isn't his soulmate.

"Hey, don't hate on the choco-la-teh. Feel free to join me, if you want."

"Fuck no."

"Suit yourself." I turn and walk through the back door and out onto the toasty warm patio to finish what I had started; this milkshake isn't perfect yet, but it will be worth every cavity.


	9. Victory Chant (Sequel to Endstone)

**This story is a sequel to "Endstone," and it is very loosely based on the Minecraft parody "Victory Chant" from Vikkstar123.**

* * *

All according to plan. Harangues about morality and sanity aside, everything is going according to plan. However, as to be expected, once one obstacle is removed from the middle of the road, another one appears. I have to get out of here before I lose control of the situation. To be honest, though, I'm already home free.

Preston thought he could get me with his sob story; he thought they would buy his waterworks and believe his testimony when he was beyond incoherent. He doesn't even know what happened and he's still trying to push the blame off on poor Little Lachy. What a joke.

Lachlan might have been laughing, but he was laughing at the GIF I had tweeted him, not at Preston falling over like the noob he is. Rob was too busy screwing around with his fancy ski gear for the hundredth time to see what happened. Mitch was turned the other way while he tried to grow some balls and go down the icy slope. And I was just waiting my turn, as always. I waited all weekend for that moment. As soon as Jerome turned around to bitch at Lachlan for giggling like a schoolgirl, I tipped Preston's right ski forward and knocked him off balance, causing his ski pole to shove Mitch to his doom, at long last. But no one can prove it, not even Preston. He is such a piss-poor skier that the police thought he had just slipped while he was teasing Mitch. They aren't even going to prosecute him.

But can he live with the guilt of knowing that he killed one of his best friends? That he killed the famous BajanCanadian, the man with over five million sobbing subscribers, the one who had sparked his Minecraft career, the one who introduced him to his sweet bro-friend, Rob? How can he live with himself now that Mitch is dead and everyone is falling apart?

I can live with myself just fine. Life is brilliant over in England, and my flight back home is tomorrow afternoon. After that, I am golden no matter how hard Preston wails from the other side of the ocean. No regrets to be had. Now I can have the spotlight back. Now I can record with whoever I want without having to ask anyone for permission. Now I don't have to share my subs and my sponsorship deals with anyone. Now I am free to do as I please without having to worry about Jerome coming after me for leaving "The Pack." Let's see him try to pin this on me; Baccas aren't smart creatures.

It was so _easy_. It was shocking, really. Just one push and he was off, like a Mario Kart on the final stretch of Rainbow Road. I don't know what Rob thought he could do by stopping his fall halfway down, but it failed, whatever it was. And Jerome! He just slipped and slid his way down there and started bawling! It was all worth it just to see him wale on Preston like that – everyone knows he had been holding it back for years. I think he would have killed him if Rob hadn't pulled him off and Lachlan hadn't held him back until the helicopter arrived. The flight medic said she thought that he'd broken Rob's nose, and Lachlan looks like a goth punk now, with two black eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a split lip. And poor, pitiful Rob-a-Dob-Flob did it all for a relationship that will never happen in ten thousand years - Poofless was dead before it was even thought of.

I'm glad I followed them down there, though. I got to fix a little problem I hadn't anticipated _and_ see the show from the front row. He was still breathing when I got to him, but that was easily taken care of. All I had to do was "straighten out" his neck to give him CPR, and with one little pop, he was gone for good. It barely even looked like him, with all of those cuts and scrapes and shattered bones. He looked like a pigeon that had been crushed by a car, with his arms, legs, and neck sticking out at awkward angles from his oddly shaped torso. After a fall like that, I was just doing him a favor.

Mitch is dead and he took The Pack with him. Maybe Jerome and Preston, too.

The King of the Hunger Games is gone and, finally, I will reign.

Can I hear a Vikktory Chant?


	10. Mitch Time

**A potentially very-triggering one-shot written while listening to "Monster" by Approaching Nirvana.**

* * *

Do you know what it feels like to have unlimited power? Do you know how sweet it tastes to have the minds and hearts of millions of people in the palm of your hand? Do you know how thrilling it is to lie awake at night and think of how many people would follow you to the edge of hell and back without question? This feeling, this _power_ … It makes the rest of it worth it. With just a couple of videos a week and two or three conventions a year, I have hundreds of thousands – no, millions! – of starry-eyed, obedient followers at my disposal. They trust every word I say. They idolize me like a _god_. They will obey my every whim, and nothing can stop me. By the time the head honchos at YouTube find out and try to shut me down, it will be over.

They wanted me to talk, didn't they? They wanted me to notice them, say their name, praise their dedication and their skills. They wanted to feel special, like they were in the spotlight for a few seconds, maybe a minute. They came from all corners of the globe just to get a selfie with me and have me sign their hoodies and t-shirts and swords. They were just desperate for attention, and I was the one who could give them that no matter what anyone else thought about them. Yeah, I'm the King of the Hunger Games in Minecraft, but to these kids, these teens, these twenty-somethings, I'm their king in real life, too. I am their _savior_. They say I helped them through hard times, that I was there for them in their darkest hour. Shouldn't they be there to help me in mine? Of course, most of them won't know that they're helping me until it's too late for them to hesitate. That's true loyalty.

I wanted to leave a legacy somehow, but I never knew what I was going to do until now. It took me almost six years to come up with this plan and I'm not going to back out of it now. They will remember me for centuries after this. My name will live on after YouTube is dead and gone, too. I might even be the reason that anyone remembers what YouTube is at all, five, ten, fifty years from now. I will make the history books – the real ones, not just the lame ass Wikis that are wrong ninety-five percent of the time. Finally, someone will spell my whole name right.

I am going to stream it on YouTube and Twitch at the same time, just like I promised. I've been talking about it for almost a month, so anyone and everyone has heard about it by now. I waited until Ryan and his girlfriend were out of town for a couple of days, and I slipped a couple of crushed sleeping pills into Jerome's chocolate ice cream milkshake disaster when he wasn't looking. I can still hear him snoring upstairs. He isn't a threat now. Even he can't stop me. And what are the others going to do? Jump in a plane and fly over from Texas, or down from Canada, or across the ocean to stop a thirty-minute livestream? I won, boys.

I grab the red and black checkered packet of sugar and pop rocks, and the fake, baking soda eraser I had made specially for this occasion and set them to the side with two half-filled glasses of water. No one will know what's happening until it's too late to stop me. I need this to be as realistic and believable as possible – I only get one chance in this lifetime to make a mark like this. Satisfied with that, I check the clock and see that I have three minutes to go before the stream is scheduled to start. I'll give them an extra ten minutes, just to make sure that everyone is tuned in. They don't want to miss this, do they?

While I wait, I silently walk across the hall to the bathroom and pull the empty box of Band-Aids out of the back of the cabinet. It isn't as empty as it looks. I pull the familiar piece of Burger King straw out and carefully shake the rest of the pure white powder out onto the counter. There's no point in saving it because I won't be needing it after this afternoon; I'll never see this house again. I slowly inhale the sweet, grainy powder and feel the rush of adrenaline and confidence I needed. I am untouchable, unbreakable, unstoppable. I am stronger than ever before. I will win this game.

I creep back to my recording studio and quietly shut the door behind me, the swell of anticipation squeezing my heart and shaking my hands. I can't feel my fingers or my feet. The excitement is unbearable. My time is almost here. I check the time – ten minutes of running on Mitch Time and we now have 1.7 million viewers, the most I have ever had. This is going to be perfect.

"Hey, what's going on, doods? It's Mitch, or BajanCanadian here, bringing you a special subscribers-only, first-of-its-kind, one-on-one livestream brought to you by Posh Life Clothing and Troll Pack! Now this is the first time I've done something this… slurpalicious and intimate, so bear with me if I lose my train of thought or go off on some… weird, transcendental tangent of awesomeness and… Yeah. Can I see a hype spam in chat?!" As soon as the video catches up with me, thousands upon thousands of comments fill up the comment bars on both programs, the words moving too fast for me to even pretend to read them. "Now _that's_ what I'm talking about! Now, as you know from last month's Hunger Games stream, we're going to try something different this time. For those of you who bought this month's Troll Pack or last month's Benja bundle with the special checkered packet in it, I need you to take that out now. And anyone who got that Posh Life back-to-school bundle we did back in August, go grab your special edition Nooch Bot eraser right now, and go tell your prank buddies to get theirs ready, too. We are going to have us some fun and pull some pranks!"

I tweet out my instructions and I pull up the Nexus and play a quick round of Hunger Games to pass the time while everyone gets ready, and my hands are shaking so much that someone kills me when there are about eleven tributes left. I don't bother to mutate. The viewer count has risen to 1.9 million while we waited, and if you assume that half of those people have the necessary supplies, I have about a million people playing the Hunger Games today. This will make the record books.

"Alright, now that that guy just mercilessly bashed my skull in like a stinking Bacca, I guess it's time to do some pranking! So for those of you who have the Troll Pack prank or last month's Posh Life t-shirt bundle, I need you to go grab about half a glass of nice, cool, refreshing water. It can be from the sink, the fridge, a bottle, a gallon, a lake, a toilet… It doesn't matter. But it has to be plain water, or it won't work." I reach over and grab one of my glasses of water and my packet of fake, sugary drink powder and wait a couple of minutes for everyone else to catch up. "Now that we have that, you have to pour your packet of Bacca rabies drink mix into the water and stir it up real, real good. Make sure there aren't any chunks or it'll just come out – blegh! Once you have it mixed up so the whole thing just barely looks white, you have to drink it, as much as you can, then go jump out and scare your mom, your dad, your siblings, your dog, your grandma, your fish, whoever's around. Chug, chug, chug, chug!" I down my glass of sugar and clear pop rocks and wait for the light, bubbly, white foam to spill out the sides of my mouth so the viewers can see. Theirs will work better than mine did – theirs is real foam.

I can almost hear the cannons fire. One by one by one by one, hearts stop from one end of the world to the next. We sold over seven thousand of those packets through Troll Pack, and we included another five-hundred thousand in bundles from Posh Life. Jerome didn't understand what was so great about the prank when I showed him, but he bought into it after I told him about my prank livestream idea. He never thought that it might have just been mine that was the dud; mine was made of sugar, but the rest of them were made of cyanide. Too bad he wasn't here to see it.

"Alright, now for the rest of you beautiful ladies and handsome gentlemen. We're going NoochM-style on this one. So have you ever heard of a stink bomb before?" Cheers, emojis, and spam fill up the chat bars, but there's no mention of the rabies prank. That was the only thing I was worried about. I know it worked – I made the packets by hand with ten times the lethal dose, just to make sure. They would have to weigh over two thousand pounds to survive after drinking that much cyanide, and only drinking a little bit of it still would've done the trick. At least I put a smile on their faces before they joined the Benja army. "So for this prank, all you need is… about half a glass of water and a couple of shirts or towels or something that you wouldn't miss if they got stained. Just so you don't have to replace all of the carpet in your parents' house or your teacher's classroom if it spills over. When you have everything set up, just drop the 'eraser' in the water and _poof_! That's one _stanky_ fart!"

I pull my folded up t-shirt and half-empty glass of water over in front of me and demonstrate with my baking soda eraser, watching in satisfaction as the water turns green from the food coloring and the liquid starts bubbling and steaming. I wrinkle up my nose and push my chair back from the desk, pretending to laugh in disgust while I actually laugh in triumph. Across the country, as many as a million of the real erasers are exploding violently like car bombs, setting towels and shirts and beds on fire and charring holes in walls, roofs, and bodies. I can almost hear the sound of thousands of fire alarms screeching and wailing, but it's too late. Even people who weren't subscribers got to play; I included five erasers with every order and told them to give them out to their friends and family members, reminding them to tell them all to tune in to this pranking special so that they could play along. A little bit of kindness goes a long way.

Then my phone starts ringing. I look over at the screen to see that Lachlan is calling, then Preston is calling, then Vikk is calling. Nooch starts blowing up my Skype in a group chat with Rob. Even Turq starts tweeting me furiously, trying to get me to lie about what happened. I did this, and I plan on taking all of the credit for it. I worked so _hard_ to get this far. I even let go of Jess to do this project. This is all _me_. I launch another round of Hunger Games on the Nexus while I wait for the third round of my prank stream to begin, but my game doesn't last long. Why do the best laid plans always have to fail? I saw it coming, but I couldn't move fast enough.

* * *

Yeah, I'm Jerome. Do you want me to tell it again? Are you trying to see if I'm lying or something? Hey, I'll... I'll tell you as many times as you guys need to hear it. It barely makes sense to me.

I woke up to the sound of my phone twittering over and over again like some kind of deranged fucking songbird. Well, now I guess it was more like a mockingjay. Who knew Mitch could do something like that? Something so… so _evil_? That wasn't the man I grew up with. That wasn't my Benj. He'd never do something so cruel and pointless like killing half a million kids. Or more. No, please don't tell me how many it was. I can't stand it. I can't know. I don't know what was going through his mind.

His mind, yeah. I guess he'd been going nutso for a little while now. Ryan said something about our house smelling like a chemical lab, but I guess I'd got used to it before I ever noticed it. His dogs wouldn't even come in our house anymore. I can't tell you if it was the poison or the explosives or the meth or crack or whatever it was, but I can smell it now. I don't think I'll ever stop smelling it. Guess the money and fame got to him. I never thought Mitch'd end up as a drug addict, especially around millions of kids! Seven million kids watched his videos! And those're just the ones who officially subscribed! If I'd known I… I would've shut him down earlier.

Yeah, I was the one who stopped him. You know that. No one else coulda done it – they were too far away. Some of the tweets I was getting… Some of those pictures… And the texts from the guys… I'll never forget that, either. Heart attacks and flames and seizures and explosions. Kids drowning in their own puke. Kids having their heads blown clean off. Kids missing their limbs. Kids with pieces of glass sticking out of their eyes. Just thousands and thousands of dead and dying kids. And the maniac who did it was right downstairs! My brother! My best friend! My b…

I had to stop him. I didn't wanna risk him doing anything else, so I stopped him. I – I went downstairs as quiet as I could and got the axe outta the garage and… Right in the top of his head. I hit him right in the top of the head. As hard as I could. It just split open and it was over. I couldn't let him suffer. I'm not fucking evil like him. He still had that damn grin on his face, I could see it on the streaming window. Then he fell out of his chair. And it all happened on-camera in front of… it said 2.3 million viewers. I don't know how many of those kids were still alive and watching, but at least one of them was. That's enough. One was enough. Can you imagine that? As a kid, watching someone get murdered right in front of you? And he wasn't just some random guy. No, he was fucking BajanCanadian, their hero, their senpai, their role model. They loved him. They adored him! They-

Shit. He was talking about being their god or something crazy like that. Just last week he said that. I brushed it off. I thought he was joking. So Mitch was a demented meth head with a god complex? A Jim Jones wannabe? Is that what he became? That's not Mitch. That was someone else. If that's who I k-killed… If that who I killed, then Mitch's been dead a long time.

Question is: what killed him?


	11. Southern Style (Prestonero)

**Warning: This one-shot is not for smut-virgins or anyone who doesn't like sexually explicit stories. This story was written while listening to "Don't Cha" by The Pussycat Dolls.**

* * *

He has no idea what he did to me. What'd he say if he knew what his challenge video idea made me do? I mean, the other guys've gotta have weird… tastes in food, too. Right? I'm not the only one. I can't be the only one. I mean, look at Lachlan with his Chipotle and Jerome with the chicken katsu from that Hawaiian place by his house. And Rob's just freakin' weird. He's gotta have something going on there. Maybe he has something with syrup. Or alcohol. All I know is I've started and I can't stop. I've fallen and I can't get up. And if this gets recorded on camera somehow, I'm royally screwed from here to the Cosmic sun and back a thousand million jillion times.

That being said, there're no cameras in my bedroom. The door's shut, my recording computer and laptop are both turned off and the cameras are unplugged, and it's one in the morning when I know Mom and Dad and Keeley and Landon aren't gonna even think of stopping by. I'm safe. I left my phone over in the office and I turned it off just in case. I have nothing to worry about. No one'll ever know.

I pushed myself over the limit at the gym tonight because I knew I had this handsome bae waiting for me at home. My arms and legs feel like they're gonna fall off, but it's so worth. I hold the clear plastic produce bag in front of my face and twirl it around a couple times, teasing myself with my reward. The tiny, bright orange pepper rotates inches in front of my face like a heavenly angel. I slowly reach in and bring the pepper out, running my fingers over its smooth, shiny, fleshy skin, not a sign of danger to be seen. Does this make me a masochist? Maybe that's not such a bad thing after all.

I make sure I have my cold, sweet safety net propped up on the table before I let out a big breath and bite into the habanero pepper, feeling the bitter sting fill my mouth to the brim as my eyes start watering. I pull the two halves of the pepper apart in my hands and examine their juicy, seedy insides greedily. It's time to begin.

I press the stringy ends of the peppers against my hard, needy nipples with a sharp intake of breath, my eyes snapping shut as the burning juices sear the sensitive skin. It's hot 'n spicy. The sting gets hotter and hotter and hotter until a small moan forces its way out of my mouth. Just the sound makes my cock jerk violently under the light grey sheets, leaving a cool trail of pre-cum behind that's almost as juicy as the pepper. When the pain gets to be too much, I pull the pepper away, one side at a time, and I see that the hardened skin underneath is angry red and tender to the touch. It hurts like hell, yeah, but it's so addictive. I casually asked Choco about it after the challenge video and he said the endorphins made eating it worth the pain. Didn't look like he thought anything of it, but as soon as the heat set in during the challenge, I already knew I was gonna try this. Now I can't stop.

I wait patiently for the burning to go away, the scorched skin throbbing dully to the tune of my heartbeat. Finally, it's time to play the real game. I lick the end of each pepper and feel my tongue water and my sinuses cramp at the extreme heat. I throw the tented sheets back and look sympathetically down at my poor, innocent, swollen cock. It knows what's coming and it's quivering in fear.

I set the smaller half of the pepper aside on the bed and gently touch the fleshy end of the bigger piece to the underside of my cock, gasping at the sudden unholy burning. It hurts so much that it feels great. My body starts writhing on its own, trying to pull away from the psychotically hot habanero. It doesn't work like that. Look what you did, you dumb cactus. Now I have to punish you.

I force my hips back down on the bed and wipe the sweat off of my forehead, glancing down to see that my shaft has turned a violent shade of red. You'd think I'd be used to this by now. I watch in horror and excitement as my hand arcs down towards the tip, the stringy guts of the pepper stretching out to pull my shivering cock in. Five inches, four, three, two, one-and-a-half, one, three quarters, one half, one quarter, one eighth… The fire blazes through my blood immediately and turns it to lava, the aching flesh on the bottom side of my cock and on my nipples flaring back to life. Everything hurts, but I love the fire. I need it to survive.

Every inch of my body is tingling and burning and sweating and screaming. I hear my mouth whimpering pitifully as I try to keep myself from jerking away from the orange nightmare. I count down from fifty before I pull it away, gently stroking the rest of my shaft with my hot, pepper-covered hand in praise. It would've only been thirty seconds if you hadn't tried to escape the first time. This's what you get for not being a man, Preston.

My hands fall to my sides and I just lay there in the cold, harsh air for a minute before I grab the other half of the pepper and bite into it again to release some more of its sweet juices. It slowly swirls around the tip of my cock, its spicy saliva dripping down the sides of my shaft. Tears are streaming from my eyes now and I can feel my nose running, but I can't block out the pain or the pleasure. It hurts… It hurts so much…

I reach fifty again and pull the pepper away, admiring the purple-red skin burning in the freezing air from the air conditioning. I grab my savior from the side table and shake it up real quick before I squirt a generous amount all over my weeping, screaming cock. It's in agony and it's making my whole body shake. I recap the squeeze bottle and put it back on the table before I start rubbing it in. The ice cold mayonnaise envelops and soothes my shrieking cock and the burning slowly starts to fade away. That familiar ache starts to settle in and I finally notice how thick and slippery the hot and spicy mayo combo is. Somewhere along the line, I came all over my stomach, sending burning droplets of cool mayo up past my belly button. The skin stings a little, but not like my cock. I grab a washrag from the table and wipe most of it off of me, shakily getting to my feet to go grab a glass of milk. That'll save my taste buds and the remains of my weeping cock.

As I dip the tip into the cold white liquid, goosepimples rise all over my skin and a shiver goes up my spine. I rub a few drops on my nipples as I wait, my tired thighs shuddering weakly and trying to hold my body upright. It only took twenty minutes to do, but it feels like I've been going for hours. Eventually, I pour the lukewarm milk down the sink and head for the bathroom to take a nice, long, hot bath. Hopefully that'll keep me from getting welts this time.


	12. Paparazzi

**Trigger Warning: If you have any triggers whatsoever, please don't read this. This one-shot is based loosely on the song "Paparazzi" by Lady Gaga.**

* * *

 **Lachlan**

It seemed so harmless. It was kind of nice, actually, always having thousands of fans in your corner to cheer you on and turn a shitty day into the best day you've ever had. Can't really complain, I guess – the other guys got it worse than me. No one takes the dangers of having a fandom seriously until it bites you right in the balls. I honestly didn't think too much of it at the time, and I thought it was just some crazy fangirl who got up one day and decided to pull a prank on poor Little Lachy. It was annoying as hell – it still is! Look at it! – but it could've been worse.

I was at MineCon with the Pack and we were signing things and taking pictures at a meet-up in a public park, and I thought it was just a regular day. You know, just a normal, everyday kind of day. Without psycho stalkers. So we'd been there for about three hours and I'd signed about a hundred things and taken about a thousand selfies and my hand felt like it was going to fall off any time now. I just wanted to head back to the hotel room and order room service and get away from the crowds and Jerome's damn yelling every three seconds. I wasn't really paying attention anymore.

She walked up to me with her long, black hair blowing in the breeze with dark brown eyes and make-up like… what's her name? Oh, yeah. Dur. Her eyeliner was like Meghan Trainor's, with the long drawn-on eyelashes. She was beautiful. She was wearing light blue jeans and a custom-made Pixelmon t-shirt with me and my Pidgeot on it. It was awesome and I told her that and she just blushed and giggled and handed me this scrapbook thing to sign. I flipped through it a little bit and… we'll just say she was a very good, very imaginative fan artist. Some of her pictures of me were really… detailed. We'll leave it at that. So I finish signing and hand her her R-rated book back and she asks me to take a selfie with her and I say yeah, and right after the camera flashes, I hear something _swoosh_ by my face, like metal on metal, and she takes off running like a maniac with her hair billowing behind her like a cloud.

I thought she was just some weirdo hex maniac like in Pokemon Y until Preston looked over and started pointing at me like the jackass he is. So, naturally, everyone else turns and stares at me and starts taking pictures and posting them on Twitter. I pull out my phone and use the camera to look at myself. When I wasn't looking, she had pulled out a pair of scissors and just… hacked my bangs off. Like, two-centimeters-long hacked it off. And she took off with the hair.

Who the fuck does something like that?

* * *

 **Vikk**

I saw what happened to Lachlan last month at MineCon and I started being more careful about meet-ups and that sort of thing. I was hoping it was one of those one-off situations where someone did something crazy and everyone else just sort of let it go after a while. It looks like Lachlan's barber started some kind of fan war for the mentally insane. Although, in hindsight, I should be grateful that they got me out of the way early, whoever they are; things just escalated after my misshap. With a little luck, they won't bother to stop by for another round.

I went out to buy another gaming keyboard last Saturday – I fell asleep on it another one and broke the spacebar off while I tossed and turned and clicked on random YouTube videos. It caused some odd dreams, let me tell you. Someday, I'm going to learn to use the bed next to my desk for something other than a snack bar. I was at the GAME store I always go to because it's close to the house and it's never busy, and when I came back out with my supplies, I noticed there was this big gouge in the side of my brand new car. My brand fucking new Aston Martin. Some genius took a rock from the landscaping and carved a misspelled tweet into the side of my brand new car, and they left their Twitter handle.

" Vikkstar123 Im you're biggest fan! XOXOXO mystarfish95"

Yeah. I wish I could go to their profile and tell them how big of a fan of theirs I am. That could only make things worse for me, though. They already did three thousand pounds of damage to my car, so imagine what they could do to me now that they have my license plate number.

I guess you could say this time I was the Vikk-tim.

* * *

 **Rob**

Yeah, I'll admit I like flowers. I mean, who _doesn't_ like flowers, bro. But at some point in his life, a man's got to put his foot down and say "Enough. That's fucking creepy."

I drove up to Montreal for the weekend to visit my mom and her family because I hadn't been up there for a while and… she was laying on the guilt trip. I needed a break, anyway, so no complaints here. I know I locked the door and set the alarm. I know I did. Preston always teases me about how neurotic I am about that kind of thing. I know I locked the door and set the alarm. I never use the patio doors, so I know those were locked. Okay, 99.8% percent sure those were locked. And no one uses windows in February in Ontario, so I know those were locked. Everything was locked and the alarm was set. I'm sure it was. Plus, it was all locked when I got home, which just deepens the mystery.

So why were there flowers all through my apartment when I came home? I'm talking about an epic shit ton of flowers, like hundreds of dollars worth. They were everywhere. On the couch, on the counter, on my desk, on the table, in the fridge, even in the toilets. There was even a trail of white rose petals leading from the front door to my bed. I grabbed a fucking knife before I checked that out, CS:GO style. There were three dozen blue and white roses on my bed and the whole place smelled like ripe, flowery death. I got the hell out of there and stayed in a hotel for a week until I could get Dad and Mat to help me move. Call me a pansy if you want, but that was beyond creepy. I just moved into my new apartment, but something tells me that isn't going to help.

But here's the worst part: the flowers were all fresh when I saw them the first time. They don't last long out of water, so someone had just put them there. They knew I was coming home.

Who the hell was in my apartment, and how long have they been breaking in like that?

What if they live in my building and have a key?

What if they have been living in my closet like that homeless man on the news?

Oh, God.

* * *

 **Preston**

I'm not gonna lie: I laughed myself half to death when Rob told me about his flower stalker. It just seemed so funny and stupid and _Rob-like_ that I had to laugh. He hasn't called himself 'The Flower King' in a while now. Heh. It's still funny. Kinda. Maybe. Not really.

His secret Valentine was funny, but my person took it too far. I guess on some sick level I should be flattered they care so much about me but it really freaks me the frick out, okay? So I was posting on Twitter and Instagram about how I was gonna stick to my New Year's resolution this time and I was gonna lose that last twenty pounds of baby fat I can never get rid of. Every once in a while I'd take a selfie in the mirror at the gym or post a picture of some food or… something harmless like that. Just for the motivation, ya know? And maybe I can inspire someone else to get out there and get in shape and feel better about themselves. It never crossed my mind that it'd cause something like this.

Apparently someone's even more into my fitness than I am. I started getting these texts every few hours telling me how good I was doing and how I needed to keep it going. I seriously thought it was Daka or the Bacca or Rob or someone else just being a massive, plebby, jobless troll. I ignored it for a while. Then they started texting me updates about how many calories I just burned running, or how many I have left for the day after eating that slice of leftover triple meat pizza. I wasn't running with anyone. I don't have a FitBit or anything like that. I wasn't posting anything about it. And I was eating at home. Alone. In my boxers.

Needless to say, I got a new phone and a new number and I don't post stuff about working out or anything anymore. And I think Rob had the right idea about finding a new apartment, too. Maybe I should move up to Canadia and live in an igloo like him. At least the ice storms and mooses will protect me.

* * *

 **Jerome**

You know how old people say "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?" Well, it's also the extremest form of fuckery. Who the hell would- I'm not responsible for this. I didn't tell him to do it. Nope. I never said anything of the sort. I never even saw his username before he sent me that first picture with all the gauze and tape and bruising and hospital IVs. If he had, I'd've tried to talk him out of it.

There's this weird ass guy who's like two years younger than me who said he started watching ASF right before we shut it down. So he's been following me around a little while. And he's prob'ly been around the cray-cray house a couple times, too. He said I was his hero and how he wished he could be half as successful and inspiring as I am, and how he wanted to start a YouTube channel in tribute to me. He said he wanted to show his gratitude for all the times I helped him through rough patches in his life and helped him keep going and laughing. That's all fine and dandy and peachy keen and touching and all that crap, but that's not my problem. My problem is how he "honored" me. How did he do it? He went and had plastic surgery so he'd have the same nose as me.

Who the hell told this guy that was okay? That it was a good idea? Like what the actual fuck, dude? And he sends me update pictures about how it's healing, and it's creepy as fuck-all. You can tell he had a shitload of plastic surgery before that, too. He's all shiny and he just looks like he's made of plastic, like he's a Jerome Aceti action figure. I don't wanna say looking at his pictures is like looking in a mirror, but it's like I'm looking down into a really reflective toilet bowl.

Can you guys stick to cloning my Minecraft skin from now on? I swear on the rest of Lachlan's hair I won't complain about it anymore.

* * *

 **Mitch**

No, just leave me alone. I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help. I don't need to talk about it anymore. It just… It just makes it worse. I'm not… I-I'm not responsible for this, okay? This wasn't my idea. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything! She did it! She did all of it! Now I can't… I can't take it back. I can't stop it from happening. I thought it was over, that I wouldn't have to deal with this shit anymore. She took everything from me. Everything! She sat there and planned it and… Please, make it stop. Please. Y-you have to stop her. Do something!

I don't want to tell it again. Every time I tell it, I live through it. It isn't like Lachlan's haircut or Vikk's paint scratches or Jerome's life-size Ken doll. Even Rob and Preston got away from their stalkers in time. I heard they caught Preston's little boyfriend, with the cell phone virus and the binoculars. I'm glad it didn't happen to him, or any of the other guys. No one deserves… this. No one should have to feel this way. I… It ruined everything for me. And it hurts so bad.

She waited until Jerome left for Jersey for his cousin's graduation. She hopped the wall in the backyard and popped out one of the window screens in the back of the house. I was editing videos with one of my earbuds in, and I didn't hear her until it was too late. The cops said she used chloroform, but all I know is that I felt someone grab me before everything went black.

I woke up a while later on a bed, and I found out later that it was Jerome's bed, not mine. I couldn't look at him after that. My eyes were covered and I couldn't move – my arms and legs were tied down. She gave me some pills while I was out… Viagara or something to get me up. I… Oh, God. I can't. I can't do this again. I can feel it. I can hear it. I don't want…

Okay. She forced me to… to fuck. She made me do it. I don't know how long I was there like that, but I didn't want to and it hurt like hell. She did it until I came three times, twice for her and once into something plastic, then she made me swallow more pills and I blacked out. I woke up in Jerome's room with the ropes cut and my blood pressure still sky-high from the Viagara. I was so dizzy when I got up to run downstairs. I called the cops and they… they filed a report. They didn't believe me. I don't think they investigated anything. If it had been the other way around where I attacked her, they would've been all over me like mosquitos. They didn't take me seriously because I'm a guy. Even though they found the chloroform and they did a blood test and found the drugs, they didn't do anything. They never found her, at least until she came forward.

She claimed we hooked up, that we met at a club and I invited her to my house to have sex. I didn't see her face until she started posting on Twitter about it where everyone could see. She planned it so she would… so when she… she raped me… she would get pregnant. She posted "Congrats, Papa!" and left me to deal with all of the shit.

She's threatening to take me to court to sue for child support.

She wants me to "be involved in our baby's life."

I don't want it. But I can't force her to get rid of it.

Don't I have any rights?

Please, help me.


	13. Today is Not a Good Day

**If you want an epic beat for these rhymes, "Death of a King" by Approaching Nirvana works nicely.**

* * *

Vikk and the swegway

Were never good friends.

No matter what he did,

He could only offend.

He went down the hallway

With a _bump_ and a _thump._

When he turned corners,

He'd fall on his rump.

When he got going

And wanted to stop,

It would jerk around

'Til he'd land with a flop.

Over and over

He'd fall and get bruises,

Then he'd watch with a sigh

As the others went cruisin'.

When the others packed up

For a trip out of town,

Vikk stayed home and

Shook his head with a frown.

He couldn't afford

To take another vacation.

He had videos to record.

His fans were all waiting.

So he worked and worked

'Til his eyes were sore,

And he worked and worked

'Til he couldn't take anymore.

He got up and walked past

The closet of merch,

And stepped on the swegway,

Which groaned with a lurch.

And now that there

Was nobody around,

He could tame the swegway

And not look like a clown.

Forward and back,

He ran into the wall,

Forward and back,

He sped down the hall.

Faster and faster

He moved toward the stairs,

Faster and faster

He started saying his prayers.

The swegway stopped

At the edge of the floor,

But Vikk's feet sent it tumbling

Down toward the door.

Head over feet

And feet over head,

While behind him he left

A dark splash of red.

Down at the bottom

He moaned and he groaned.

He reached for his cell,

But could not move a bone.

He waited and waited,

Day after day,

Down on the floor,

In a puddle he lay.

When they opened the door,

The swegway by his side,

Vikk was humiliated,

But he just couldn't hide.

They all started laughing,

'Til Ethan saw the blood.

That was when Josh

Asked what he had done.

Then JJ gave out

An almighty shriek.

Who would've thought

He'd been there for a week?

Just like always,

His videos were uploaded.

If he had stopped,

Then they would have noticed.

The Sidemen were screaming,

But all Vikk could say

Was "I hate that damn swegway;

Today is not a good day."


	14. The Death Cup

"Come on, Mitch! Stop stallin'!" Still no answer. What a wimp. This was his idea, but now he doesn't wanna do it. After Lachlan and I tweeted out that we were recording it today. Typical Bitchy Mitch. "Mitch!"

"I don't think he's coming," Lachlan says from the barstool a couple feet away, moping and looking through his posts on Twitter while we wait for the King to sit his ass on his royal throne between us so we can get started.

"Oh, he's coming, all right. Meetch!"

"Damn it, Jerome. Stop," Lachlan whines as he runs his fingers through his hair for the thousandth time. This guy's almost as vain as Preston.

"MEETCH!" My guttural screech echoes off the walls and through the house. I know the neighbors hear it, so Mitch has to hear it, too. "MEETCHELL DONNELL-R-"

"Will you shut the hell up already?" Lachy-Dachy's getting annoyed? Time to step it up a notch.

"MEEEEEEETTTTCCCCCCCHHHHEEEELLLLL!"

"Jerome! He isn't-"

"What? I said I was coming." Mitch peeks around the corner in his Benja hoodie with his hair messed up on one side and bags under his eyes. He must not've slept much again. Lachlan glances over at me and I see him roll his mutant blue eyes when he sees me grinning. I won, and he knows it. Wild Mitchells can't resist a Bacca roar at eleven at night. "So what have we got today?"

"You said we were doing a Death Cup of Dreams. I don't know what that is. You tell _us_." Mitch raises an eyebrow at me and nods as he wanders over to the fridge and starts digging things out. Pickle slices, mayonnaise, raw eggs, spinach leaves, spicy grated cheese, salsa, pepperonis, Kool Aid pouches, chocolate milk, an orange cream sicle, frozen blueberries, and last but not least, sardines. Lachlan looks more horrified every second. This's too much fun already. I'd drink a cup of everything else just to watch him eat a sardine.

"Where are those chips?" Mitch asks, looking between me and Lachy like we should be guilty or something.

"What chips?"

"Those nasty ass reuban sandwich chips that everyone hates."

"I dunno," Lachlan mutters with a shrug, looking innocently up at Mitch with his big blue doll eyes. So of course Mitch turns to me.

"I didn't eat the shittin' things. Glare at this guy – Chipotle was closed last night when we got done recording. He had to eat _something_." Mitch turns back to Lachlan, who gets up and sulks back to his room to retrieve the bag of pukey-lettuce-flavored chips. He tosses the bag at Mitch, who squishes it and crunches them up before grabbing the three dice and three disposable red Solo cups. Ain't no one gonna wanna clean this shit up.

"You ready, boys?" Mitch asks and Lachlan puts on his happy face while I pop Mitch's phone into the tripod. I hit record and sit back in my seat, waiting for our grand leader to lead us in.

"Hey, what's going on, doods? It's Mitch, or BajanCanadian, here with Jerome and Lachlan for another Death Cup Challenge!"

"Of death," I add for good measure, and Lachlan nods in agreement. He's already eying that jar of pickled sardines. Fish, fish, fish, boyos.

"Of death," Mitch echoes as he grabs the dice and starts shaking them around in his hands. "So this is how this is going to work: we each get one death die, and the highest roller has to add the ingredient to their cup. When all of the ingredients are gone, we drink."

"After we toast. You hafta toast, Mitch. Drinking without a toast just isn't the polite thing to do."

"A toast to our health, then we drink from the cup of death. Are you ready, gentlemen?" He pulls the orange cream sicle forward for the camera to see. Mitch looks wicked and Lachlan looks sicks, but they both grab their dice and we roll. Six, five, two.

"Okay, not bad. I'll take it." I unwrap the ice cream and drop it in my cup, squishing it around so it'll melt faster. No one likes a chunky death cup. Mitch pulls the jar of pickles forward and we roll. One, five, two. Mitch reaches in and drops four squiggly pickle pieces into his cup.

"Ugh. Do you want to trade, Jerome?"

"Nuh-uh! Get your juicy fingers away from my ice cream!" Lachlan chuckles and I move my cup outta Mitch's reach. "Leggo my Eggo!" We roll again, this time for the spinach. Four, one, two. Damn it. I glare at Mitch and his nasty ass health food as he drops a handful of green weeds on my ice cream. It's gonna look like one of his gross fucking baby diarrhea smoothies now. We're rolling for the blueberries this time: two, five, four. Mitch doesn't look too disappointed.

"This is starting to look… rather appetizing, don't you think?"

"Looks too healthy for me," I mutter as I grab my ice cream stick and stab at the vile leaves in my drink. Blegh.

"Still empty over here, boys," Lachlan gloats as he shakes his empty cup for the camera to see.

"You're just waiting for those fish, fish, fish," I say and he wrinkles up his nose and clanks his cup back down. He needs to get those rotten fish. I'd pay him a hundred bucks to eat one. We roll for the grated cheese: one, four, one. Mitch sprinkles a little bit in his cup, and I reach over and triple it. I watch him mourn his blueberries. Again, for the barf chips: four, three, six. Lachlan pretends to look disappointed, but he's the only one who even remotely likes those disgusting things. He deserves 'em. He adds a big pile of mini chips to his cup while Mitch laughs at his pout. We roll for the salsa: five, one, five. We roll for the tie, and I get three, Lachlan gets four.

"Looks like Lachy broke his lucky charm. Oh, yeah. Get it in there real good," Mitch cackles as Lachlan pours hot, chunky salsa on his beloved chips. Still not as bad as my cup. We roll for the two raw eggs: five, six, two. "It looks like I'm getting my protein tonight, guys."

"Yeah. Fetus Preston style," I snicker and Lachlan looks over at me in horror. "What? Pressy used to gulp down raw eggs on camera when he first started YouTube. Look it up, you noob." He nods uncertainly as Mitch pulls the chocolate milk forward. Four, three, three. "I'll take it. Maybe it'll drown out the healthy stuff."

"It's really not that bad," Mitch insists for the millionth time. It's spinach. Of course it's bad.

"No. It really _is_ that bad. You just don't have the sense of smell a Bacca has."

"Jerome, spinach doesn't smell like anything."

"What'd I tell ya?" Lachlan laughs while Mitch rolls his eyes and grabs the grape Kool Aid pouch: three, four, four. They roll for the tie: five, one. Mitch grabs the scissors from behind the camera and pours it in, and we all lean in to watch the pickle boats and blueberries buoys bob around in the purple, cheesy sea. Okay, now that's nasty. He reaches for the sardines, but thinks better of it. He's saving those for last. He grabs the pepperonis and we roll: six, three, one. Now that _has_ to drown out the spinach. I watch as they just kinda float on top of the milk. Nooch'd be proud.

"Last two!" Mitch announces as he reaches for the mayo, and Lachlan's eyes widen as he realizes that he might get off easy this time. Actual roflcopter. Two, four, five. I hand Lachlan the spoon and watch in triumph as he spoons two giant globs of creamy white mayo on his pukey-lettuce-spicy chips. Now if he'd just lose this last round, all my dreams would come true. Mitch slowly slides the jar of dead, floating cockroach fish in front of the camera and we all look down at it in disgust. "Well, this is it. This is the end of the line for one of us." With a solemn nod, we roll. Five. Damn it. Two. Double damn it. Five. Okay, I still have a chance. Lachlan and I look at each other and Mitch happily pushes back from the bar. It's just me and fish boy now. Three. He looks at me, and he knows his chances are slim. We watch the die hop up and down on the bar and… Four. It was meant to be.

"Fish, fish, fish, Lachy."

"Oh, shuddup," he grumbles as Mitch hands him the jar and plugs his nose. Lachlan looks around for something to grab the fish with, but he wrinkles up his face and just sticks his fingers in and grabs one, then another. What a brave soldier.

"Now it's time for your favorite show, ladies and gentlemen! Will. It. BLEND?!" I yell as I grab the camera and head over to the blender, wanting to get my viewpoint filmed before my ice cream and milk get too warm. Mine isn't too bad and I down all of it, the spinach still too strong and green-tasting. Mitch goes next, and I spend as much time looking at the resignation on Lachlan's face as I do watching Mitch blend his drink. He takes a sip and looks satisfied.

"I'll see you suckers on the other side," he says as he downs the rest of the cup, dropping it proudly into the trash compactor as Lachlan rinses out the blender miserably. I mighta felt sorry for him. If I wasn't a Bac and I had a heart. We watch his smoothie blend, the red and grey juice splashing up the sides as chunks of fish and soggy chips get flung around by the blades. Finally, it's done.

"Fish, fish, fish," I snicker as he peers down in the cup in horror. He glares at me and plugs his nose, like that'll do him any good. And like a champ he chugs it, even though he looks grey like the fish when he's done.

"Nah! Just nah!" He shrieks as he tosses the empty cup in the puke sink and puts his head down on the counter, bending awkwardly in half because of his weird, long deer legs. He's hysterical in the background as Mitch does some kind out outro for the video, and I go grab him a Monster to wash it down with. Monsters fix everything.

"I didn't think you'd do it. You show those fish, Lachlan."

"Nah. No more fish, mate. Don't talk to me about fish." He pops the top and starts chugging, swishing a little bit around in his mouth before spitting it out. Damn. Those fish were chunky. His cheeks are red but the rest of his face is pale, and he looks like he's gonna use Water Gun all over the kitchen ceiling. I back away and Mitch cackles and heads to his office to start editing. I don't blame him – guy's gotta sleep sometime. I just chill there with the Australian fish boy for a while, finishing up the carton of overpriced organic chocolate milk while he pants over the sink like a dog. I wish he'd just get it over with so I can start cleaning up. He bends down even further, like he's laying on the counter.

"You okay, buddy?" He just nods weakly and I go to throw the empty milk carton away. As soon as I turn around, his legs give out and he collapses on the floor. I thought he was screwing around until he started making that death rattle noise. Nothing on Earth should make that noise. That's some scary shit. "Lachlan? You alright?" I tap his shoe with my foot a couple times but he just lays there. Is there a hidden camera or something? Is this why Mitch was taking so long? A prank?

"G-guh… Guh…"

"Hey, Mitch!" Of course he has his headphones on. "MITCH! MIIIIITCH!"

"What the hell, Jerome? Can't you do anything without-"

"Lachlan's dying!"

"What?"

"Lachlan's dying!"

"What do you mean- Holy shit." He bends over and starts fishing through my pockets for my phone and he calls 911 while I turn Lachlan over and try to keep him awake. I wish I had an EpiPen right now. Damn it, Mitch. Why can't you have food allergies like Nooch? His face is pale like death around bright red splotches and his cheeks are so swollen up he looks like a pufferfish. His eyes are bloodshot pink and searching around the room for something that can help him breathe.

"Don't give into the fish, Lachlan. Don't let 'em win. Fuck Nemo, man. Let someone else go find him." He makes an awful snoring noise and I guess he's trying to laugh. But that's when he passed out. "Lachlan? Lachlan!" What've we done?

I guess I was still screaming when the paramedics arrived. He was still breathing, but just barely. They EpiPen'd him and his throat cleared up a little, and when they got him to the hospital, they pumped his stomach and stuck a needle in his arm attached to a bunch of different bags of clear liquid. They said he'd be fine, even though he looks like he got road rash on his face and arms from running away from a swarm of angry bees. He looks like something evil outta DOTA. He hasn't woken up yet, but the nurse said he'd snap out of it any time now. The only thing that still looks like Lachlan is the messy blonde hair. The rest of him looks like Dudley Dursley with chicken pox.

The other guys Skyped with us on Mitch's phone earlier. Vikk loaded twenty-five bucks on his Steam account, Preston bought him a giant stuffed fish on Amazon, and Rob sent a fancy thing of flowers to Mitch's house. Vikk's the only one with an ounce of sense in his whole body. You know what they say: the only thing that smells worse than fish is fish and flowers.

But those fish, man. Those vile creatures are fucking evil.


	15. Stage Four

**Based on the song "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten. I'm completing a quick writing challenge given by The FieryZorua. If you read this in public, I take no responsibility for your or others' reactions.**

* * *

My wristband says 'Preston Arsement' in big, bold, black letters, and the plastic's so strong it's like they plan on leaving it on forever. Maybe they do. It's too late. I know it's too late, they know it's too late, everyone knows it's too late. So what's the point? Why try to get rid of something everyone knows you can't get rid of? Why waste the time and the money and the tears on someone who everyone knew was a complete goner from day one? Put it to better use somewhere where it'll actually do some good. Try to save someone you can actually save instead of wasting it all on a hopeless case like me.

If you would've told me six months ago I was dying, I'd've laughed right in your face. Heck, three months ago and I still woulda laughed. I can still barely believe it now, and I've been dragged back and forth through hell for two and a half months. No results yet. No results _ever_. They told me from the get-go that it was too late to do anything, so why are they still trying? Why can't they just let me die in peace? Or, better yet, put me out of my misery so I won't hafta worry about it anymore? I'm tired of counting the months, the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds I have left. I'm so tired.

I guess it started with the hiccups. The first doctor said that was a sign, but it sounds so stupid, right? Hiccuping yourself to death? Naw. What an awful way to die. No, the real sign was the bronchitis and the sinus infections and the coughing. All the time. Multiple times a year, every year. Maybe if they would've done a scan two or three years ago they might've caught it in time. When it finally sent up a red flag, it was too late. Even I could see it on the scan images, all those bright white bumps all through my lungs. They were everywhere. Some of them weren't even in my lungs – they spread outside to other places. That's what makes this so bad. I can't just get on a transplant list and wait for Prince Charming to die and cough up a lung or two.

I'm even more hopeless than Jerome on a sugar-free diet, or Vikk on a swegway, or Lachlan on ice skates, or Mitch in a joke contest. Then there's Rob. He's almost as hopeless as I am. He can't do parkour, or PVP, or challenge videos, or cooking, or matching his own clothes, or swimming, or dancing, or anything else fun or useful. He's way beyond hopeless. But he's gonna live. I'm not. In a month or two or three, he'll still be a YouTube star. And I'll just be nothing. I'm already nothing. I can't even pick up my camera to record, and every time I try to play a video game, I just get nauseous and puke all over everything like the girl in 'The Exorcist.' This isn't life. I'm already dead. I'm turning into the walking dead.

All they can give me is cough syrup and pain meds and medical weed to deal with the coughing and the burning, and a couple anti-nausea meds whenever they send me for chemo. There's no cure. There's nothing they can do. There's nothing _I_ can do. All I can do is wait. It's so hard to stare eternity in the face.

I feel like Nooch half the time, floating somewhere up by the ceiling, looking down at myself. I'm out of my mind on drugs. It doesn't make the pain or the coughing stop, but it turns pain into this out-of-body throbbing instead of something I can't stop thinking about. It can't get the cactus out of my lungs, but it put rubber pads over all the spikes. This pill cocktail turns pain into something you'd look at in a museum and wonder what it'd feel like to poke instead of something that's a part of you. That's all I am now: pain. Pain for myself and pain for everyone else.

No one gets how hard it is for a twenty-one-year-old to plan their own funeral. Yeah, everyone else cries, but they don't cry as hard as me. It doesn't hurt them as much as it hurts me. It rips me into a billion little pieces and it feels like my ribs are breaking with every breath. But when I get going, I can't stop. They might lose one son, or one brother, or one friend, but I'm gonna lose everything. With just a knock on the hospital door, everything was gone. Even I'm gone. I'm not me anymore – I'm just a character in a play, putting on a show for everyone else's sake.

Ya know, calling it "stage four" is really sick. It's like they think it's a video game or something, like those old Mario racing games on the N64. It makes it seem like there's an end you should look forward to, like there's a big shiny trophy or something that everyone's racing for. That's not what they meant when they called it "Race for the Cure." It's like that one game "The World Ends with You" where there's a boss battle, and after you beat it you can go back to life as usual. Or even worse, what if there's a secret stage five no one talks about? Can it get any worse than this? No, God wouldn't be that cruel. He wouldn't create something so… so evil. Would He? But then who made cancer? And why? What did I do to deserve something like this?!

I was a good Christian. I was a good man, or I tried to be. I helped people. I wasn't greedy. I donated money and volunteered and went to church almost every single week my whole life. I lost weight. I was healthy. I ate healthy food most of the time and I cut out a lot of the junk food. I exercised. I didn't smoke. I didn't drink that much. I was happy almost all the time. No one else in my family ever had cancer. So where did this crap come from? What made this happen? What did this to me?!

They said it might've been an exposure to pesticides or something when we lived out by the golf course. It might've been the power lines that run past Mom and Dad's house. It might've even been the cologne I've been using since I was a teenager. Just inhaling it every single day for years might've been enough to set it off. Just a couple broken cells. That's all it took. Just one or two went haywire and multiplied over and over and over again, then they started breaking off and floating around in my bloodstream. They found 'em everywhere, from my throat to my liver to my balls. They're so small no one noticed. So small no one can get rid of them. They won. It's game over.

I know I lost, but I'm not gonna stop fighting. I've beat the odds before. But this isn't exactly PVP, is it? It's just so hard to walk on the bright side when everything's so dark you can't even see the floor. They gave me one to two months to live and a big bag of medication to tide me over until I can't feel anything anymore. It'd be so easy to just give up, end it, go to sleep. But I want my life back. I want it so, so bad. It's all I can think of, day and night, and sometimes I don't even sleep because I'm so wrapped up in memories of the good times. The guys'd kill me if they knew. I'd already be dead if Mom had any clue. There're just too many lost chances and wrong choices, so many woulda-shoulda-couldas. So many words I wish I could've said but never had the guts to.

And what'd happen to my viewers if I just gave up? What would happen to the ones who are fighting like me? Would that make them give up, too? I don't wanna be a serial killer when I die. I hafta keep fighting, if not for me, then for them. I might not be able to do much, but I can still give them a little bit of hope. I can show them I know what they're going through. And if I don't make it, at least they can hold on and fight for me. They can remember me. I guess you could say I still believe.

I believe in a lot of things.

I open my eyes and stop pretending to be asleep. Choco must've left sometime during the night because his chair's empty. Mitch and Jerome said they were gonna meet us at my apartment later after the doctors let me go. I don't do chemo well. I look over at the chair right next to my bed and I see Rob still sitting there, with his head slumped over on the side of my bed and his feet propped up on Choco's empty chair. He looks as exhausted as I feel. I can't believe he stayed with me all night again.

I guess I worked up my nerve this time. This is the most nerve I'm ever gonna have. Come on, Preston. You only hafta say four words. And if he doesn't like it, who cares? Does it really matter anymore? Come on, bud. Just start with one. Just one little word. Press the button for some pain medicine and just say one word.

When I take the breath, I start choking. Choking on the cancer, on the air, on my words, on my tears. It doesn't take too long before my eyes are streaming. I don't know if it's from the coughing or if I'm crying again. It just hurts. It hurts so much.

"R-rob."


	16. Sweet Nothing (MrWaffles)

**Warning: This one-shot is not for smut-virgins or anyone who is disturbed by sexual themes. This story is based very loosely on the song "Sweet Nothing" by Calvin Harris ft. Florence Welch.**

* * *

Every time Preston flies up to visit, it feels like he has to leave too soon. He just got here, but he is already long gone. His flight has probably landed in Dallas by now. Why can't he be spontaneous like me and stick around for a few extra days, especially when neither of us want him to go? What is he doing at home that is so damned important that he can't do it on my computer?

I have a sneaking suspicion that he has someone back home that he doesn't want to tell me about, that he doesn't want to admit to seeing. Could he finally have another girlfriend, after all of these months of moping around and flying off the handle about how indifferent and backstabbing his last one was? Or is he hiding something else, someone else? He has made more than a few offhand comments and jokes about how he might be into guys, so could he have a boyfriend? Why would he not tell me? We tell each other everything, but…

Does he think I would be jealous? Let's be honest here: just thinking about the possibility of him choosing someone else over me again makes me jealous, but the thought of it being a guy just makes it worse. It pisses me off. Why doesn't he like me? What is wrong with _me_? I do everything for this guy, but he doesn't give me the time of day unless we are gaming together or at a convention. He gives me nothing. As soon as the conversation moves from a game or an event to our relationships (or lack thereof), he gets so touchy and defensive. He doesn't 'like to talk about it.' Is he playing hard to get, or is he truly that far in denial?

It has to be the latter. I can't even count how many times I have caught him staring at my crotch or my ass in the past year, and when we are together, he spends more time leaning on me, or hugging me, or somehow touching me than he spends sleeping and eating combined. That is truly saying something. Does he not see where this is going, or does he just not want to admit it? If he was hitting on me any harder, I would be covered in bruises. He frustrates me so much.

Just thinking about him frustrates me, and not just in an emotional way. We spent all weekend trolling through the city, with him in his tight t-shirt and jeans with that mischievous spark in his eyes. Half of the time we were at my apartment, he wouldn't even bother to put pants on, or close the door when he went to take a piss. Even the dim beams of the street lights at night weren't enough to hide the impressive crease in his grey sweatpants as we took our usual early morning run along the main street, his hand running periodically through his thick, dark brown hair to keep it out of his face. How can't he see how beautiful he is? Does he know it and intentionally flaunt it to get my attention? He gets to me so easily.

I sigh and take my headset back off and lay it down on the desk by my empty tea mug. I won't be getting anything else done tonight. Not with _that_ microphone, at least. Preston knows just how to get to me, even when he isn't here anymore. I open a new tab on my browser and go over to Twitter, just in time to see the new selfie he posted from the airport in Texas. He looks like he finally got some sleep: his hair is tousled and his clothes are wrinkled, and the bags under his eyes look heavier than ever. Maybe he didn't sleep so much after all. I catch myself absentmindedly palming the stiff tent that had risen in my sweatpants and I reluctantly pull my hand away. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. I have no hope.

I push my chair away from the desk and leave my computer to continue uploading the videos I had just finished editing. I can finish the rest of it later. I stretch and head down the hall toward my bedroom when something from the kitchen catches my eye. I had woken up in the early afternoon before Preston and decided to make him a plate of going-away waffles, one of the few things I know how to cook without burning anything. Waking up a sleeping cactus by slapping him across the face with a lukewarm waffle is now one of my favorite mini games. He had been grateful, no doubt, but it looked like he had wanted to say something else, too. What could he have been thinking?

I sigh and walk toward the front of the apartment, grabbing the cool, ridged bottle from the countertop in front of the kitchen sink. Although I would never admit this to anyone, I could only think of one thing while I watched Preston pour syrup on his waffles this morning: this bottle could be used for other, less obvious, less acceptable things.

I open the door to my bedroom and the first thing I notice is that the room still smells like him. I flop down on the bed and pull the bedspread and sheets up over my head to block out the fading afternoon light streaming through the window. The cold, empty bed is full of his scent. His cologne, his shampoo, his skin, his sweat. It envelopes me and makes me feel strangely warm. I'll admit it: I miss him already. I bury my face in his pillow and inhale, my crotch pressed painfully against the hard mattress. My hand slowly, uncertainly creeps back down to the mountain in my pants and, before I know it, I am lying flat on my back with my sweatpants and underwear strewn somewhere under the sheets at the end of the bed, a trick I had learned in college when someone could walk in at any time.

The taste of the syrup mixes well with the smell of the cheap Old Spice cologne he buys, and soon my mouth begins to water. My tongue traces the sweet cap of the bottle while my mind pretends that Preston is still here and that the bottle has been replaced with something softer, warmer, smoother. If only he was as willing as I am, we wouldn't be in this mess.

I quickly lose interest in sucking on the bottle – it just reminds me of what I missed out on yet again. It isn't the same. It's time to break out the big guns. I turn over on my side and start rifling through my nightstand until I finally find a condom, then I rip it open with my teeth and gently unroll it over the top of the bottle. I roughly pull my t-shirt off and toss it aside on the floor as I roll over onto my stomach, my cock pinned sideways against the scratchy sheets. The slick, oily surface of the cheap, pre-lubricated condom sends shivers down my spine as it travels up my thigh and along my entrance, teasing me and testing my willpower. I guess I didn't realize how long it had been since I had done something like this.

The tip slides in easily, the awkward edges and ribs of the neck of the bottle disappearing as a feeling of intense need overpowers my brain. The width is almost more than I can bear, but the deep, animalistic desire to take it and the rich, heady scent of his pillow cloud my mind and relax my muscles. Before long, I feel the flat tip pressing firmly against my sweet spot, my body tensing needily as it gently massages my prostate. I reflexively buck up against it, and I carefully ease it in and out over and over again, starting slowly and steadily increasing the pace. With one final, hard, rough thrust, the bottle slams into my ass and I can't hold it back any longer. It feels like my prostate is somewhere in my chest and my heart is beating out of control. My stomach and the sheets are both covered in wet, rapidly cooling cum, and I sink down onto the mattress in content exhaustion, carefully sliding the bottle out as I wrap the sheets tightly around me.

I suddenly feel very cold. It hits me how alone I am, lying here in an empty bed in an empty apartment, no one to share this experience with, no one to hold onto. All I have is sweet, sweet nothing. I carefully slide the used condom off and toss it toward the trash can in the bathroom, missing by at least a meter. I set the warm bottle of syrup on the nightstand next to the clock, feeling the sheets paint cold, wet streaks across my chest and belly when I move. I sigh and bury my face in his pillow again, breathing in his scent and holding it in my lungs for as long as possible, like I do with smoke when I light up a cigarette. Preston is even more addictive than nicotine.

I must have only lain there for ten or fifteen minutes when my phone starts ringing from the end of the bed. I quickly fish around for my discarded pants and hit the answer button just before it would send the call to voice mail.

"Hello?"

"Hey. What're you doing?" Why is Preston calling me? He would have just now gotten home. Is he just trying to pass the time while he waits for his new date to come over? What could he possibly want from me when we just said goodbye six hours ago, after spending four days together?

"Just chilling about, waiting for my uploads to finish. What are you up to?"

"Nothin' much. Wishin' I coulda stayed the rest of the week before coming back to The Cave. I just ordered some pizza from that new place down the street. See if it's any good."

"I thought you were in love with that six-meat pizza over at Rosa's."

"She cheated on me when I was gone. She don't sell the good meat no more. And you know how I like my meat." My eyes flicker down to the lump hiding my quickly softening cock and I can't hold back the smile.

"Everyone knows how you love a good hunk of meat, bro. You never let us forget."

"Exactly. I think I might even like that nasty Canadian bacon crap they always have at Domino's."

"Wait, you don't like Canadian bacon?" I try to sound outraged, and I can hear the smile in his fake sigh.

"I mean… I didn't used to, but I think it's growing on me. It's too sweet and mapley for my tastes but I can see why you guys put syrup on everything."

"Syrup makes everything taste better."

"Well… Yeah. Yeah, I guess. I bet even _you'd_ taste better with syrup, Mr. Waffles."

Fuck, Preston. Next time I go grocery shopping, I need to remember to buy a new bottle of syrup. I think I found a new addiction.


	17. The Flower King (Crazy Craft)

**The first of three crack fics to celebrate Halloween. If you need more crack to go with your candy corn, this story goes well with "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" by Tiny Tim.**

* * *

Just one more stretch, Rob. You can do it, man. I know you aren't cut out for this kind of thing, but everyone is counting on you and Mitch is like two checkpoints behind you. Everyone is watching and it's all up to you to win it for the team. You are going to win this time. You can do it.

You are halfway through it now.

Just five more blocks.

Four.

Three.

Two.

As usual, I jump too soon and I miss the second-to-last block, my heart falling faster than my body as I rocket downward and out of the world. I see Mitch entering the final stretch of the parkour map above me, and I instantly know that I lost, again. I lost it for the team, again. They are going to be so pissed at me now… I almost wish that I wouldn't respawn here. I would rather be sent back home, away from these guys.

I materialize up at the end platform when Mitch crosses the last pressure plate, sending bundles of rainbow fireworks shooting up into the air. I will be seeing some fireworks soon, too. While Vikk and Jerome congratulate Mitch on his unlikely victory over the-two-parkour-masters-plus-Rob, I turn and face an annoyed lava mob and a livid human. Lachlan looks like he could punch a tree into sticks right now.

"Robert… What in the bloody fuck was that?" the blonde asks just a little too calmly and I stand my ground, waiting for his usual rant to start. He has already been in a bad mood all day, and this isn't going to help with that.

"I tried, man. I really tried. You know how much I suck at parkour and-" He waves his hands emphatically while he shakes his head, his jaw clenched and his face getting redder by the second.

"That was absolutely pathetic! Did you forget how to jump? We finished like five minutes ago and here you come, hum-dee-dum, derpity-derp like it's some kind of fucking game!"

"Lachlan, it IS a game. It's supposed to be fun. Didn't you-"

"That wasn't fucking fun! It's not fun if you never fucking win! And we never win when we get stuck with you! God dammit, Rob!"

"Bro, I tried. You know I suck. Take Mitch next time. We are both equally bad so-"

"No, you aren't equally bad! At least Mitch is good at PVP!" Okay, now that stings. Who does he think he is? I beat his ass at hardcore PVP eight out of eight times, and yet he has the gall to say that to me?

"Excuse me?"

"Hey, Lachlan. Lachlan! Lay off, dude. You don't wanna…" Preston interrupts, but the Australian just brushes him off and steps closer, pointing his finger only pixels away from my face while he yells at the lava mob.

"You fuck off, too! The only way to win anything in this group is to be on your team, Preston, and you team with this idiot because you pity him! Do you hear that, Rob? He's only your friend because he pities your sorry ass! You aren't even good at building, and that's like the only fucking thing you can do!"

"Lachlan…" Preston mutters, tapping him on the shoulder and trying to get him to stop. Is he just doing it because he feels sorry for me like Lachlan says, or does he know the truth and he is trying to warn him? How could he know? No, he must just be feeling sorry for me again, like always.

"We just tell you you're a good builder so you'll go stand in a corner for three days out of everyone's way where you won't blow anything up or hurt yourself! How does it feel to be so fucking useless?"

I won't lie: hearing this from anyone really hurts, but it's twenty times worse hearing it from someone I consider one of my best friends. I reach into the inside of my hoodie and grab the red rose that had just sprouted and bloomed there, then I step forward and hand it to Lachlan. He looks down at it, flabbergasted, his eyes squinted at me in disbelief.

"I'm sorry. I know I screwed up, but I'll try harder next time." I don't know how I can try harder than my best, but I'll find a way. He doesn't look convinced, and Preston just looks pained.

"No! You always say that, but nothing ever changes. Fuck… this!" He grabs the head of the beautiful, delicate rose and rips it clean off of the stem, gritting his teeth against the pain of the thorns as he shreds the fragile petals off of the huge, ornate bloom and throws them down onto the ground. It physically hurts me to watch this. Large, thick drops of bright red blood stream down his left wrist from the places where the thorns had bitten into his palm, but that isn't enough. Not now, not after everything he said. I had tried so hard to win… I had worked so hard growing that rose… How could he call himself my friend and do something like that? How can he say these things to me?

"Hey, Rob? It's okay. I mean, we could always do something else next time. Yoou know, if you want," Preston says with an uncharacteristic gentleness that quickly turns into alarm. Lachlan scoffs and runs his fingers through his perfectly styled hair. Everyone's eyes are on me now; I can feel it even though I can't make myself look up at them. I feel so small, but the anger is growing.

"And now he's gonna be a fucking crybaby to get his daily dose of sympathy! Boys, boys, boys! Why do we waste our time?"

I have had enough. He has said enough. I don't care if he is just having a bad day - I can't take it anymore. I can't just laugh this off like I always do; he crossed the line today. I can't hold it back anymore.

I feel dozens of hard, spikey tendrils poking through my thin outer skin, their thorns bristling upward toward the sun in triumph and glee. I haven't spread my leaves for quite a while now… It's been way too long. I feel my upper stem sliding its way up my short, smooth, outer humanoid throat, and I take the first real breath I have had in months. It feels so good to be free, to not have to hide in a costume anymore. Eight tired eyes open in the dim sunlight, the field around us a million different colors that humans could never see. I fooled them for so long, and they didn't have a clue. They thought I was a human, just like them, and they bought it! They never even guessed! It's too late to stop it now, and I feel a surge of pride when I hear the first scream.

I think my anger is justified.

So there's this unspoken rule in the Pack about not pissing Rob off. It's usually pretty hard to do so we don't even think twice about it. He's just so happy and nice all the time that it's kind of hard to imagine him angry. It takes a lot to even frustrate him. I'll admit I've wondered what would happen if he completely lost his temper, but… This is way beyond anything I could've imagined.

In less than thirty seconds, he went from staring miserably at the ground as Lachlan yelled at him and belittled him to… transforming into some kind of inhuman plant creature. I have nothing against mobs – hell, I'm friends with a Bacca and a lava mob, and I'm pretty sure Vikk is hiding something, too. But Rob… I never thought he might've been lying about being human. I mean, he _is_ pretty strange and awkward, and I guess his obsession with flowers should have been a warning sign… But who would have guessed he was something like _this_?

Large, blood red thorns jut through the human-like skin all over his body as a massive green stem forces its way out of his mouth, curling up into the air before it arches back toward the ground. The huge bulb at the top of the stem blooms, opening to reveal a gargantuan red and purple rose, the inner petals lined with rows of tiny, sharp, black teeth that are glittering in the sunlight. Is this thing the real Rob?

"Miiiiitch!" Jerome screams in front of me and he starts backing away, Betty clutched tightly in his hands as he holds her over his shoulder like a baseball bat. The flower rears back and hisses in his direction and shudders visibly at the sight of the axe. It then turns to face Lachlan, his eyes wide in terror and his mouth open in a silent 'O'.

"Now Rob… We can talk about this, right?" Preston squeaks as he fights the urge to run backward away from The Flower King, watching in horror as his friend's humanoid shape crumbles into a giant pile of red and black roots and limp human limbs. The plant starts crawling along the ground, churning up dirt and flinging bits of gravel as it inches toward the paralyzed Australian. He must be a lot heavier than he looks if he has all of this inside of his body. That might be why he's so bad at parkour.

"Enough talking," the flower snarls in Rob's wavering voice before it launches forward, picking up momentum as Lachlan shakily looks behind him and starts trying to back away. It's too late. The flower shoots forward like a Venus fly trap and wraps its petals and vines around Lachlan's writhing body, gripping him tighter and tighter as he tries to break free.

After several sharp, ear-shattering screams of pain from the human, the flower lifts up the limp bottom half of Lachlan's body, shaking it morbidly in its mouth like a dog, his legs dangling several blocks above the ground. Blood rains down on everyone from the mutilated corpse as the saw-like teeth grind through bone and squish through fat and organs. Before long, there is nothing left but the humungous plant and a sea of tiny, blood-stained flowers that had sprouted up all around us in the grassy field, a trail of upchurned dirt behind Rob's monstrous body.

"Okay, that's enough… I think we've had enough for one day," Preston mumbles as he walks forward and tries to put a shaky, fiery hand on the plant's outstretched tendril. It recoils in pain and turns to roar at him, warning him to keep away. "Come on, dude. We just wanna talk." We all fall silent, watching the creature's vines and leaves blow gently in the wind while it tries to decide what to do. The flower makes a _whooshing_ sound, kind of like a sigh, then the stem straightens up toward the sun and shoots back down to the ground.

Within seconds, the roots and thorns and branches have disappeared, leaving nothing but a grotesquely bending and snapping Rob on the ground, his body jerking around violently as the plant bends to fit into a human shape. I guess he doesn't have actual bones or insides. He quickly stands up and brushes the dirt off his clothes, his eyes focused on the ground even when Lachlan finally respawns on the other side of the platform with a small _pop_. He bends over and grabs the small, yellow-green orb of experience that Lachlan had dropped and pops it into his mouth, swallowing it as he starts to walk away from the group, his hands in the pocket of his hoodie while he looks up at the sky. We watch him go, Preston's head swivelling around to look at each of us in turn before he runs after the flower mob retreating into the forest. Even after all that, he still can't just let him go.

"It looks like Poofless is as alive as ever," Vikk mutters under his breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and I can't help but laugh. It starts out as a snort, but it steadily grows into such deep, uncontrollable laughter that tears start streaming down my face. It's just so absurd!

"Dood, can you imagine what their kids will look like?" Everyone slowly starts to crack up. Well, everyone but Lachlan. He just hurls all over the field of flowers.


	18. Mirrors

**The second of three Halloween-ish themed stories. This one-shot is very, very loosely based on the song "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake.**

 **Trigger Warning: If you have a weak stomach, if you don't handle stress well, or if you have any triggers whatsoever, I encourage you to skip this one-shot. It isn't the worst thing I have written (by a long shot), but it still might be too much for you to handle.**

* * *

 **Jerome:**

The fucking doorbell's ringing again. We aren't even filming a challenge video, so what could that old bag next door wanna bitch about now? Every single day. Every single fucking day, she's over here ripping us a new one about how we woke her granddaughter up. Lady, you don't _have_ a fucking granddaughter. You don't have a daughter. Hell, you never even had a husband 'cause no one could possibly wanna put up with your moldy old ass. All you've got is cats, and let me tell ya, the cats don't give a shit if we're playing ping pong at nine o'clock at night.

The bell rings again and I groan and rub my eyes in the dark room. It's probably like two in the afternoon, but we just went to bed a couple hours ago. Lachlan and his damn Aussie flights at six in the morning. Who the hell wants to fly back to NemoLand in time for dinner? Eat some fucking peanuts, take a nap, and shut your trap. The bell rings a third time but my legs still don't wanna move.

"Mitch!" I yell, hoping he can hear me from his room at the other end of the hall. Not likely. When the King's asleep, you know the lion's fucking sleeping tonight. About the only thing that can wake him up is his ex-girlfriend's cheap perfume, and that freaks him the fuck out. Can't blame him, after what happened last year with that nutso stalker who broke in and knocked him out. I wanna spray some in his eye about now. It'd be worth hearing his bitching for a week just so I wouldn't hafta deal with Hilda Hagface two days in a row. The bell rings again and I can hear 'em knocking on the door downstairs. "M-itch! It's your turn!" No answer. I sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pulling on yesterday's jeans as I walk over to the bedroom door. I take my time going downstairs, and they ring the bell again as soon as I make it down to the kitchen. I look through the window pane on the door and it looks like two big guys in dark blue shirts. Did Benj get new gardeners or some shit? I open the door, and they knock the yawn right outta my mouth before I can say a word. In seconds, I'm on the ground with cold, silver cuffs on with some big fat guy pulling me up by the back of my shirt.

"Jerome Aceti, you're under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in-" What the hell is happening? Before I know it, my head is thrown back and I'm screaming like a banshee, louder than I've ever screamed before.

"MIIIIIITTTCCCHHH!"

* * *

"I swear, I don't know anything. I was home sleepin' in, we'd just got back from taking our friend to the airport, and they were with me all night and all weekend. I swear, I didn't know any of that happened until you told me. I didn't kill any kids. I'm not that kind of guy. I was at home with the boys all weekend. I didn't do it, man." I can't tell if the detective is convinced or not, but she cringes at the end. "Sorry. Ma'am."

"The officers reported that it took you just over six minutes to answer the door. Can you explain to me again why it took so long?" I try not to roll my eyes and I awkwardly nod my head, trying to push the anger back down. How many times am I gonna hafta explain how lazy I am?

"I was asleep upstairs and I didn't hear 'em knocking when they first got there. They shoulda rang the bell to start with." She still doesn't believe me. "I heard it the first time they rang the bell, but I thought it was our annoying neighbor lady so I just ignored it for a couple minutes. She's over there every day talkin' about how we can't be outside in our backyard after five at night and… Look, I don't have time to take twelve-hour road trips every day to go to Nevada and West Virginia and New Jersey. Check my bank statements if you don't believe me. I haven't left the state since last month. I don't know who's doing it, but it ain't me, that's for sure." She's getting annoyed now and she shuffles back through the paperwork to her notes about the case. I hope they'll let me go soon – I've been here for four hours already and I could go for some chicken katsu to calm my nerves.

"Mr. Aceti, we have this photo from a home security system in Tampa at one o'clock this morning, and Tampa is not a 'twelve-hour road trip' from your house. We have had over thirty callers from the local news station call in and positively identify this man as _you_. If you were at home last night and this morning, how do you explain this?" She turns a full-page black and white, grainy photo over and pushes it across the table so I can see it. I can't believe my eyes.

"Holy shit." She doesn't seem impressed. I look up at her and back down at the picture, and it's just as shocking the second time. This _is_ me, but it's not me at the same time. It looks exactly like me but there's no way I was in Tampa this morning. I look down at the time stamp and some of my anxiety dissipates. I was home recording Crazy Craft with Benj and Lachy when this photo was taken, and I have the computer files to prove it. I could probably get the server admins to give them records of me being on the shitty Atlantic server at that time, too. And when Lachlan touches down with his little bags of chodenuts in Aussie Land, they can call him and get him to testify over Skype or something. Or I'll pay him to fly back. I don't give a shit anymore. I wanna get outta here.

"Our forensics team compared this with the photo we took when we brought you into the station this afternoon, and their computer program reported that you were a 97.1% match with this man. Any discrepancies between you and this photo might be attributable to the poor quality or the angle of the photo." In other words, I'm royally fucking screwed. I look back down at the photo of the guy, his hood pulled up over his snapback cap and his dark, empty eyes staring directly into the camera. His hands are hanging down at his sides as he strikes a pose, like he doesn't even give a damn. Like he's daring me to say something. The worst part, though, is that his face and hoodie are covered in dark, glistening stains. He's covered in some thirteen-year-old girl's blood.

"I want a lawyer."

* * *

 **Mitch:**

They finally made me leave the police station and go back home for the night. Walking out of there and knowing that I was leaving Jerome alone to rot in a cold, dirty jail cell killed me. I know he's innocent: Lachlan and I were at the house with him when the kids got murdered, and there's no way he teleported four hours away when we had our backs turned. We have videos proving he was there with us, but for some reason they aren't letting him go, even when we have evidence that it couldn't have been him. What did they find that has them so spooked?

I turn the car off and rest my head against the top of the steering wheel, waiting for the garage door to shut behind me. I sit there for a while, thinking. Thinking about this massive mess, thinking about the cops stomping in and out of our house all day, thinking about the dead kids, thinking about poor Jerome. Knowing him, he's more pissed off than he is scared. Jerome Aceti isn't afraid of anything, except maybe playing Block Party with fifty bucks on the line. The overhead light on the garage door opener finally shuts off and I sigh and open the car door, grabbing my keys and the remains of Lachlan's last hurrah at Chipotle out of my door panel. I take my time unlocking the door to the laundry room, knowing that I have no friends waiting for me on the other side. Living in Florida is lonely when everyone else is at home and Jerome is in a holding cell. I always thought he would get arrested for beating the shit out of some guy at the grocery store over a bag of chips, or for running someone over with a car because he thought the red light was green. I never thought he would be a murder suspect.

The inside of the house is pitch black, and I glance down at my phone and see that it is almost ten o'clock already. I had better prepare for Hilda to wobble her way over here in her purple slippers and bite my head off about leaving my house after curfew and waking her up with my headlights shining in her downstairs window. The Bac would have a joke if he was here right now. If we switched places, he would be eating a steaming hot plate of Hawaiian fried chicken and coming up with a plan, not moping around, feeling alone and useless. I'm not even hungry.

I turn on the kitchen light and sit down at the counter to check my phone. The other guys don't know what's going on yet and I can't tell them until we get everything sorted out with Lachlan. I don't want to get Jerome in any more trouble by being a blabbermouth. I turn on Pandora while I check Twitter, trying to fill the empty silence. It sounds really stupid, but I hate being alone now, after that insane fan girl broke in through the patio window and drugged me in my office. Just thinking about her and the kid my lawyer made sure I'll never have to hear about again makes me shiver, and I get up and reset the alarm before heading upstairs to my room and locking the door behind me. I put my phone over on the nightstand and slump down on the bed, waiting for tomorrow to come so I can go back to the police station to try to get my main Bacca back. I just end up staring at the dark ceiling, watching the headlights flash across it from the street below.

But I can't shake the feeling that somebody's watching me.

* * *

I get a whole slew of Twitter notifications at six AM after Preston's subs tag me to do some shitty adventure parkour map he posted a video about early this morning. Why does he always have to do this to me? Does he think it's funny? I groan and run my hand through my hair, stuffing my phone in my pocket before I head downstairs to find something to eat. I'm still not hungry, but the headache is already setting in. When I get down there, I notice that the kitchen light is already on. Did I forget to turn it off last night? Usually Jerome is the one forgetting to do little things like that, but I could have sworn I turned it off after I set the alarm… Things start getting trippy when the smell of coffee reaches my nose. I don't drink coffee.

I make sure my phone has enough of a charge before I start recording and I carefully slide it back in my pocket, taking a deep breath as I peek around the corner. My heart is pounding in my throat as I look around in the kitchen, expecting to see her standing by the counter. There is nothing there, and I sneak the rest of the way downstairs, listening closely while I walk over to the silverware drawer next to the fridge. Almost there…

"Mornin', Mitch." That voice… How…?

"Jerome?" It's like he appeared out of the ether. Like always, he has a knack of turning up without a sound, silent and cat-like. I turn and he's standing there in the grey Sidemen hoodie Vikk sent him for Christmas last year and a yellow and green snapback cap, sipping a cup of black coffee with two empty Monster cans perched on the edge of the counter next to him. Everything seems so perfect… it doesn't seem real. I can't tell what it is, but something's wrong here.

"In the fur and flesh." He takes another drink before he puts his coffee mug down and sits down on the end barstool, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

"When did you get home? I didn't think they were going to release you until Halflife 3 came out." A cool smile spreads across his face as he bobs his head, his expression lacking any semblance of sincerity. What is up with him? Why is he acting so weird?

"They gave up the ghost a couple hours ago. I grabbed an Uber and made it back around four. Didn't see the point o' goin' to bed when we were just gonna record this morning, anyway." No true man of the Bac would say that. Jerome would sleep twenty-five hours a day if I let him, and I wouldn't be surprised if he took a nice, long nap in the examining room at the station while he waited for them to make a good case against him. This is all wrong. It's like I'm seeing him in a steamed up mirror, like he is only half himself.

All of the cracks start showing as I take a step closer to him. The hoodie fits him a little too tight around the shoulders, his facial hair looks a little too long, his cologne is a little too strong, his posture is a little too straight, and… his shoes, wristband, and hat match the green t-shirt under his hoodie. Jerome rarely matches even when he can tell the colors apart. He always has to ask me which pair of Converse are red and which ones are dark green, and half of the time I lie to him to keep him guessing. What are the chances that he would know all of those things matched perfectly without asking anyone? He has so many plain shirts and shoes, and he steals half of mine, so how would he know which color is which when they look the same to him? Jerome wouldn't know the difference, but this guy might.

"Where did you find that hat? Is it from that box of Christmas crap Mom sent down from her garage?" I joke as genuinely as I can, and he looks at himself briefly in the screen of his phone, his eyes lingering just a second too long on his face. Is it so obvious that I'm suspicious that I have him checking his make-up? I have to be very careful with this. Whoever he is, this guy is crazy enough to break into my house and try to impersonate Jerome, and judging by how the cops acted yesterday when they came by to arrest the real Jerome, he is probably insane enough to kill someone, too. It isn't just my life on the line here: now I have proof that there is a second Jerome wandering around Florida, and if I can trap this guy and turn him in without getting myself killed, I can get my main Bac off the hook. I can't screw this up.

"What's wrong with my hat? Can't a Bac have a little color in his life every once in a while?"

"Nothing wrong with a little Christmas cheer in October. It's a great costume - scary as hell. Maybe we can do a Christmas-themed Hunger Games since we both match," I say, pointing down at one of my many Benja hoodies. He looks confused as his eyes move between the green hat in his reflection and my red and black checkered hoodie, his twisted mind trying to figure out what the punchline is. The real Jerome would've either had a smartass remark by now or he would've asked me if I was trying to trick him. He would know me well enough to not trust me. Whoever this imitation Bac is, he can see color, loud and clear.

"I mean, if you think you handle it, Mitch. I dunno if you're prepared to see Santy Bac this early in the year," he replies after a too-long pause, as he takes another sip of his coffee, his shark eyes trained on my face while he waits for me to take my turn. Does he really think he fooled me?

"You know I can't pass on a chance to sit on good ol' Santa Bac's lap," I mutter with a small slurp and a half-hearted wink, calculating the distance between me and the butcher block full of steak knives. I don't want to push this psycho too far. He looks confused again as he lowers his cup, his eyebrows knitted in a very characteristic Jerome frown. How long did this guy spend studying Jerome's facial expressions before he pulled this doppelganger shit? Wait, could this be the Twitter guy? Is this that nutcase who got all that plastic surgery and lost his shit when Jerome freaked out at him a few months ago? Fuck. "We can OP the server to only generate Snow Globe. Then we can just sit on there until we get one or two decent rounds to post." He looks alarmed under his Bacca mask, like he hadn't thought of the repercussions of not knowing Jerome's passwords and server commands. Shit. I don't wanna push him.

"Wouldn't Turq get mad if you started screwing with his server? I mean, he did just spend two weeks doing updates and fixing the code," he replies quickly as he studies my face, waiting for a sign of suspicion. He did his research on Twitter before he got here, that's for sure. Once a stalker, always a stalker. What is he planning to do if my act fails? Does he have a gun, or is he going to pull a Rob and chase me down with the golden knife? I need to get the hell out of here.

"Yeah, but what else are we paying him for? It's just a temporary game rule, so no harm done. Everyone likes a little snow to go with their chops." He's watching me more intently than ever, and I pull out my phone and pretend to check a text, making sure to get a decent shot of him in the frame before I slide it back in my pocket, microphone up. What else could they need to prove the real Jerome is innocent? "Well, GG. I'm going to go take a shower before we start recording. I'm almost as grimy as Vikk after a GTA best moments montage."

"Sounds good. Nothing better than a good ol' grind on a Saturday morning." The fake Jerome nods very convincingly and goes back to his phone, pretending to not watch me as I slowly make my way back upstairs. I have to take it nice and easy or he's going to know I'm on to him. Who knows what he'll do then?

I finally make it upstairs and shut and lock the door behind me, then I noisily pretend to dig out some clean clothes. I close the bathroom door and lock that, too, hoping to buy myself at least a couple of seconds if his bloodlust gets to be too much for him. I clunk around in the bathroom some more before I turn the water on full blast, cranking it up to the hottest setting so the pipes will scream and give me a little more cover. Only then do I pull out my phone and cut the video to call the police. With any luck, they won't come in with sirens blaring and warn him that his reign of terror is about to come to an end. They can break the door down, they can smash the windows, they can set the whole fucking house on fire for all I care. I just need to get rid of this guy. The phone rings one, two, three, four, five times before it finally goes through.

"Fort Lauderdale Emergency Response Service, my name is Amy. Who am I speaking to?"

"Mitch. My name's Mitch. We have to hurry."

"Okay, Mitch. Can I have your address?"

"Seventeen thirty-seven Braeburn Street. There's this… this guy who broke into my house. I don't know how he got here or how he got around the alarm system, but I think he might be armed. Please, please send someone."

"I'm sending someone right now. Are you hurt, M-"

"Hey, Mitch? Who're you talkin' to in there?" _Fuck_. He must have come upstairs right behind me and picked the lock on the bedroom door. What do I do now? Do I hang up? Do I play it off? What do you do in a situation like this, when you have a raving lunatic breathing through his mouth on the other side of the door? Is there anything…? Lachlan's water proof speaker. He left it here when he went home yesterday. But will he buy that?

"What? What are you talking about? I'm listening to the radio, dood. Can't a guy jack off to some tunes every once in a while? What do you want?" I keep my voice as even as possible, but I don't think he bought it. He's too paranoid. I start looking around for something I can use as a weapon, but there's nothing here. What am I going to do? I can feel the panic rising in my throat like a gallon of sea water, burning more and more every second.

"Nah, I'm pretty sure I heard your voice, and I don't hear any music. You callin' someone?"

"Mitch? Hello? Are you still there? Do you need me to send an ambulance?" Do I give in and answer her and blow the rest of my cover, or do I pretend nothing's happening?

"No, everything's good. Why?" I don't know if she heard me, but it's the best I can do. I can't keep trying to play both of them. I strip down to my swim trunks and jump in the shower so I can pretend to be telling the truth if he breaks in.

"Can't a Bac be a little worried that his best friend is talking to himself?" I can see the shadows of his feet moving back and forth under the door, and the door handle is rattling gently as he tries to open the lock.

"What's wrong with a little singing in the rain?" I look around again, and my eyes land on the black and yellow plunger next to the toilet bowl that we bought as a gag gift for Lachlan after he broke Preston's toilet for the second time. It isn't the most intimidating thing in the world, but it'll have to work. If this is the best I can do, I can't be here when he gets that door open.

I grab my phone and stick it in the pocket of my soaking wet shorts before I walk over to the tiny, bubbled privacy window behind the master bathtub. I check behind me one more time before I unlock the window and pull it open just enough for me to squeeze through, cringing as the alarm beeps downstairs. I tuck the plunger under my arm and sneak out onto the slanting roof next to the garage, carefully pushing the window shut again behind me so he can take his time figuring out where I went. I spend a few seconds considering my options: do I make a run for it, or do I try to hide until the cops show up, if they show up? If I head toward the garage and try to make a break for the street, I'll have to go right past my bedroom window. He would have to be completely blind to not notice me walking right past him through the glass. If I head around the back of the house, I can try to sneak around the left half of the roof and climb down by the front fireplace. I don't think he can see me anywhere on that side.

My mind is made up for me when I hear the bathroom door handle snap behind me in the house. I run along the roof toward the backyard, his furious screams echoing behind me in the tile room. I almost slip three or four times on the cool roof, my feet still dripping wet from my thirty-second dip in the shower. About a minute later, I hear the sound of shattering glass behind me, and I can only see one option: I have to jump. He has shoes on, and since he has better traction, he can outrun me. I can't make it all the way around the house.

"MIIIIITTTTTCCCCHHHH!" His animalistic scream echoes up and down the street, and for once, I hope we wake up Hilda. I run the last few steps to the back of the house and take a leap of faith into the pool, hoping to buy myself some time. My phone is absolutely dead now. Any chance of calling 911 again is completely shot, and I might have lost the video footage, too. I can worry about saving Jerome later. Right now I just have to save my own ass. "Let me eat your liver, Mitchell. It'll only take a sec."

His voice isn't anywhere near as loud as it was a few seconds ago, and I can see him rounding the first edge of the roof. He's getting too close for comfort. I pull myself out of the pool as fast as I can, grabbing a patio chair on the way to the sliding door. I swing the chair at the door and shatter the glass before tossing the oversize weapon aside and running into the house. I wince as I feel the broken shards sliding around under my feet, sending little pin pricks of pain shooting up my legs. I lost the plunger somewhere along the line, and I can imagine the pool guy's face when he has to fish a toilet plunger and broken glass out on Tuesday. I stumble into the kitchen and grab the biggest knife in the butcher block before heading toward the front door. But as soon as I reach the door, the full extent of my naïveté sinks in. I can see his outline on the other side of the door, waiting for me to run outside and let him back in. I know he can see me, too. I'm trapped.

"Shit," I mutter as I see him raise his arms above his head, and I back away from the door as quickly as possible. The axe flies through the glass and lands only a few feet from where I had been standing, and I look up to see him grinning maniacally at me as he fiddles with the locks on the door. There's nothing human left in his eyes.

"Hi, Mitch. I simply _love_ your Hunga Games," he cackles as the door swings open. He crunches his way through the glass and I turn to run… but where? Where can I go that he can't follow? If I had my car keys, I could-

The first shot rings out. Nobody can help me now. I'm trapped like a frog in a science lab, waiting my turn to be dissected. Any second now, he's going to catch me. My feet hurt so much and I'm so tired of running…

The second shot doesn't miss. I feel the spray of blood on my bare back as I turn the corner into the kitchen, grabbing the spare set of keys out of the junk drawer as quickly as I can. I can still hear him yelling behind me, but everything is in slow motion now. I have so much adrenaline in my veins that I can't even feel the pain anymore.

Three, four, five, six shots echo through the house, but I'm in my car before I can focus enough to count them. I start the car and jerk it into reverse, ripping the garage door down on my way out. I almost don't see the police cars on the street in front of my house before I plow into them. My brakes screech to a halt inches from the first cruiser and my car rocks violently back and forth from the momentum. I rest my head on the steering wheel, just breathing. It's over. It's finally-

"Why you gotta do this, Mitch? Why you gotta be so darude?" I look up and see him standing there, Jerome's dark grey hoodie and green sneakers soaked in bright red blood. He has a trail of red trickling out of the side of his mouth, too, but he's still smiling. Not Jerome's usual sarcastic grin, but the kind of cruel, knowing smile a skeleton has. He raises the pistol and points it at me, and time stops.

I see the grin on his face explode into a thousand little fleshy red slivers as his perfectly molded mask disintegrates. The bullet enters through the back of his skull, piercing through the middle of his face before it comes out the other side. His right eye, the bridge of his nose, and a handful of teeth rocket up into the air, painting Jerome's car and the ceiling and floor of the garage with splatters of bright red blood. There is nothing left of his face but one empty, soulless eye and a huge red-black hole.

Somewhere to my left, someone is shouting, but before I can figure out what they're saying, the world goes black.

* * *

 **Jerome:**

"Dammit, Mitch. Why you always gotta try to be the hero?" He's been jerking around and twitching in his sleep for like three hours now but he can't seem to

wake himself up. His fingers are ice cold and limp in my hand and the look on his face is somewhere between a scream and a frown. He looks like he's in pain. Well, judging by the size of the bandage on the side of his neck, he probably _is_ in pain. I glance over to see that the third cop finally made it back to his spot in the hallway. He's looking at me, waiting for me to ask so he won't interrupt anything. "What happened to Mirror Man?" He brushes the creases out of his shirt with a small smile before he makes his way next to Mitch's bed.

"He made it longer than we expected, but he's gone. He never would've woken up, either way. It's better this way – you two can sleep at night without worrying about his next master plan."

"So now there's just one me, right?"

"As far as we know. You might wanna keep your eyes peeled, though. Once one person does it…" He raises his hands and shrugs with an apologetic grin and I nod in agreement. He's right: this maniac probably started a whole trend. It's like the Anonymous masks but a million times more disturbing.

"Will do. Next thing ya know, I'll be beating off armies of Bitchy Mitches in the backyard. The shit you see in Florida…"

"Why do you think they based a CSI show out here? You'd be surprised." He salutes and joins his two partners in the hallway, tapping one of them to go take his lunch break. At least we have our guardian angels to take the first shot for us if Lachlan's carbon copy shows up and starts demanding Chipotle or death. What the fuck is the world coming to?

Mitch's hand twitches again and I hold onto it for dear life, pressing the button to call the nurse as a large spot of blood starts spreading across his bandage again. Dammit, Mitch. Can't make anything easy, can ya?

I learned a couple of important things from this whole disaster. First, fans are scary fucking creatures. And second, the next house we buy isn't going to be made out of fucking glass. I don't want any more of these creepy ass motherfuckers watching us and breaking in and trying to kill us and shit. How the hell is Pewdiepie still alive if five million subs leads to fuckery like this?

"Come on, biggums. You can do it. You need to come back now."


	19. Aftertaste (Chipotlan)

**Warning: This story is not intended for smut virgins, innocents, or anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit stories. This one-shot is loosely based on the song "Aftertaste" by Shawn Mendes.**

* * *

It's been too long. Four months. It's been four whole months since I last touched down here in the States. It's been four months since I last walked out these doors and into the airport parking lot. It's been four months since I last saw you. I've missed you, but it won't be much longer until you're in my grasp again. In less than half an hour, I'll be sprawled out in the gaming chair in the guest room at Merome's house with you laying next to me, your sweet, spicy scent drifting through the still, cool air. It's chilly at night here in November and I need you to warm me up. I can't wait any longer.

The minutes crawl by as I wait in line with Jerome, pretending to yawn and scroll through my Twitter feed while he talks about some video idea he and Mitch concocted this morning. I couldn't care less. I can see you only centimeters away behind the steamy glass. I can smell you like you're right in front of my face, taunting me. I can feel you in my hands like you had just left me a few seconds before. Things are just like they were over the summer, like nothing has changed and no time has passed since I left you behind. But things have changed.

You have to forgive me. I was desperate. I didn't mean for it to happen, bae. I was so lonely, so weak. Yeah, I'm needy. Yeah, I regret cheating on you, and I won't ever do it again. I learned my lesson for good this time – no one can replace you. It wasn't right, and it wasn't even good. It wasn't worth it. My desperation just left a terrible aftertaste in my mouth, and I need you to help me get rid of it for good. You are my one, my only, my true love. You feel it, too. We both need this, don't deny it. I'll make it up to you tonight, I swear.

Jerome offers to pay from somewhere in the distance, and I quickly hand him my rewards card so I can start earning credits again. I need to make the most of my three weeks here, Preston's "real Southern food" or no. I'm not pretending to eat Rob's nasty tomato-and-egg moist bagels again. Fuck that noise. I'll stockpile burritos from every Chipotle in Dallas-Fort Worth in the fridge if they're going to play that card again, cheap fuckers. Every night is Friday night with you.

I get my food in a separate bag and I start snacking on the chips and guac on the way to the house, only half listening to what Jerome says. Who can pay attention to his yakking when they have the burrito boner of the century being grilled by said Bacca's dinner through the bottom of the bag? I almost can't hold it in when he opens the garage door – I jump out and grab my luggage while the automatic door shuts behind us. I told him on the way back from the airport that I have some last-minute editing to do that I didn't have a chance to finish before my flight, so I was going to eat while I finished it up. I guess he bought it because he doesn't question me running down the hall with my food, trying my best not to walk awkwardly when I reach the doorway. This is the boner from hell.

I've practiced the set-up so many times in my head that my body springs into action as soon as the door is shut and locked and the gorgeous brown bag is resting on the dusty black desk. It's become a reflex. The scratchy clothes slide right off and it's like the black, fluffy towels flew up on the chair by themselves. My hands are shaking as I pull your hot length out of the bag, setting the rest of the chips and guac aside as the headlights from the cars outside on the street reflect off of your shining silver skin. I almost forgot how beautiful this scene was. It's time now.

I'll make it up to you, for my absence and my infidelity. I'll make it worth it. I'll make it good. I'll prove to you that you're the only one for me. I'll show you how sorry I am, how much I regret doing that to you behind your back. That other burrito… It was nothing. It was bland, cold, stale, _weak_. Everything you're not. Nothing can compare to you, bae, nothing at all.

I tightly grasp the back end of the burrito and begin peeling away the delicate silver foreskin, breathing in the intoxicating scent of addiction. You can take the Chipotle away from Lachlan, but you can't take the Chipotle _out_ of Lachlan. It was only a matter of time before we were here together again. A familiar warmth fills every cell of my body as I test the firmness of the warm, solid shaft. It's perfect. It's even better than I imagined it would be.

What we have here… This is true perfection.

I pull the foil back to the very end of the burrito and recline back in Mitch's old gaming chair, closing my eyes as I rest my head against the little built-in pillow. It's time to prove myself. It's time to perform.

The burrito slowly descends, forcing my mouth open with stubborn determination. You really want to get your due today, don't you? A small line of tangy juice trickles down my neck as the tip of the burrito finds its way past my lips, stretching my jaw open as wide as it can go. Farther, farther, farther… Wider, wider, wider… Until my mouth is completely full and there's nowhere else to go. Then it goes a little farther.

Tears start streaming down my cheeks as the sheer size of the spicy shaft pushes me closer and closer to my limit. I hold back my desperate gagging as the huge, smooth length slides slowly in and out of my mouth, showing me the error of my ways. This is my punishment for being needy, unfaithful, irresponsible. I don't deserve another chance. I'll do anything you need me to to make it up to you. Whatever you need, I'll do it.

Faster, harder, rougher, the burrito thrusts into my open, eager mouth, my eyes watering more than ever and my throat closing tightly around the persistent shaft. It seems to go on forever and only seconds at the same time. I want it to end and to be forgiven, but I want it to last so I can savour the moment, the feeling, the taste. Nothing and no one can replace you. I've waited so long for this…

Suddenly, the sides of the burrito burst after running past my teeth so many times. My mouth fills with the thick, creamy, chunky goodness of the load. Thankfully, it fills my mouth so much that it muffles my moan as I lose control and release, too. I don't know how long I sit there, eyes closed tightly as I feel the slick, spicy filling slide down the back of my throat. All I can think of the overpowering aftertaste of you.

It's amazing.

It's beautiful.

And I'm finally forgiven.


	20. Posh Life (Crazy Craft)

**Trigger Warning: If you have any triggers, please do not read this one-shot, or any of the chapters of this story. My writing is not for the faint of heart, or for anyone with a conscience or a soul.**

 **This story is based loosely on the song "Diablo" by Approaching Nirvana.**

* * *

 **Jerome:**

God dammit, Mitch. You tell me to come all the way down here and grind out diamonds to waste at Pete's casino, but you barely give me any torches. Fuck it. I'm not goin' all the way back up there to punch down trees and all the way back down here to keep trollin'. Not gonna happen. Ain't no one got time for that. Now I've got no torches and it's deep and dark like Mitch's fucking black hole stomach and there's nothing I can do. There's a Creeper stompin' around somewhere over on the right. I can smell the gunpowder. And I can hear something slosh through a puddle of water up ahead. It's just not safe for a Bac to be down here all alone-like. I hope you're happy when I die, you lazy ass.

I feel my way along the wall and step in the little stream I heard earlier, then everything starts to sound weird. I must've found the end of the tunnel. I run my hand over the sides of the cave, trying to find the smooth, shiny surface of diamond, or even the uneven sides of emerald. Hell, I'd take iron at this point.

There's nothing here.

I sigh and start walking the other way along the wall to see if the cave branches off somewhere else. Then the palm of my hand brushes against something soft. And fluffy. And furry. What could be down here that's-

"AHHH! SHIT!" I pull my hand away from the tiny, razor-sharp teeth and book it outta there. Where there's one bat, there's always like fifty more. Just ask Lachlan. Fuck the diamonds, man. Mitch can find his own fucking diamonds. I'll rob Rob's house if he needs 'em that fucking bad.

At least Rob won't bite me. I think.

* * *

 **Mitch:**

 _Bright. Move. Hurt._

What's taking him so long? Mining trips always take forever, but five days have passed and Jerome still hasn't come back from the mines. He's been gone longer than this before, but never down in a mine. He hates mines, so what could be taking this long? I know he can take care of himself like a big Bacca… But this is Jerome we're talking about. Can he honestly be expected to take care of himself for this long? I really don't want to go ask Vikk for help finding him, not after what happened with Nati and the villager farm last week. Lachlan would just die over and over again from Creepers, and I won't bother asking Rob because he always gets distracted and lost. I could ask Preston to go with me… Yet again, I don't have anything I can bribe him with, and lava mobs never do anything for free, unless Rob is involved. It looks like I'll be on my own for this one.

I head downstairs to the storage room and start packing supplies, noting with a groan that Jerome took all of the torches and all of the coal with him on his expedition. Why didn't he take wood so he could mine coal as he went? He left me with nothing to work with here. I grab my sword with a sigh and head out toward the community mines that he always bitches about. It looks like sending him out on his own wasn't such a great idea after all. I should've made him do the fishing while I mined. At least he can't do too much damage with a broken fishing pole.

Would it have been that hard to just make a strip mine under our base, Jerome? Why do you always have to make things a thousand times more difficult than they have to be? You would've found the same number of diamonds in a fifth of the amount of time if you would've just been smart about it, but no. You always have to be the stubborn one. Damn it, Jerome.

 _Bright. Far. Bright. Much._

I can see the mouth of the cave up ahead, a steady line of torches lighting up the surrounding area as the sun slides below the horizon. I made it to the entrance of the mines right before sundown, and we'll probably be stuck here until suntime tomorrow, if I can even find him. Knowing him, it's hard telling what kind of trouble he got himself into.

 _Sound._

I walk into the cave and start looking around for a sign that Jerome has been around here recently, but all I can see is dusty rocks and all I can hear is the gentle trickle of water. No one has been here for at least a day or two, so he either got lost on the way home, or he's stuck down below somewhere. Everything looks and sounds normal, but… It seems eerily quiet. It feels too still. I only travel into the depths for a few more minutes before I find my feet cemented to the floor. Something isn't right. Something is off. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it down here. I want to turn around and go back, maybe come back sometime tomorrow with Vikk or Preston or Mat or someone. Looking for Jerome down here in the dark, dangerous cave all by myself doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

 _Sound. Up._

I take a small step backward and make up my mind to leave when I hear it. A pebble shifts somewhere down below, making a small scraping noise against the floor of the cave. The silence doesn't seem so silent anymore. My bones freeze in place and I can hear the soft snoring sound coming from a few blocks deeper, the snuffling and hissing echoing off of the walls as the creature rounds the corner.

 _Sound._

"Jerome?" my mouth whispers before I can think, and my jaw falls open when I see his face reflecting the torch light from the wall. His small, beady black eyes are wide and empty as he looks up at me, the fur on his face and chest heavily matted from the river of saliva flowing from his gaping jaw. The thick, wet snorting noise is coming from his mouth and a fresh wave of cream-colored foam drips down his chin to land on his slick, glistening wet chest. His arms and back are twitching awkwardly as he stands as still as he can, his torso dancing while he tries to stay in place. He moves his nose up in the air to catch my scent. His eyes open even wider in a horrible hunger.

 _Sound. Hurt. Blood._

That isn't Jerome. Not anymore.

With a loud wheeze, the rabid Bacca starts scrambling up the steep slope toward me and I turn to run back to the front of the cave. I don't think I can get away from him, not like this. He's running on a whole new mainframe now and pain, loss, and fear mean absolutely nothing to him. To him, he's floating on air. He's invincible. He's starving. I might be able to hit him a couple times with my sword, yeah, but will that be enough to stop him? Would he even feel it? And if he even so much as scratches me, I'm as dead as he is.

I'm halfway to the entrance of the cave when it hits me: Jerome is dead.

I'm the reason he died.

I did this.

Me.

I was the one who-

"RAGHSH!" Betty was nowhere in sight when he showed up at the bottom of the tunnel, so this sharp, stinging pain didn't come from clean, cool diamond – it came from him. I'm infected now. I only make it a few more stumbling steps before I collapse on the dusty, gritty ground. I can feel the hot blood trickling down my leg where his claws cut through my Achille's tendon. I can't move my foot anymore.

 _Sound. Mine._

I look up and he's less than a block away, staring blankly at my face with dark, unseeing eyes. This is so much worse than staring down a zombie: I know he's still in there, somewhere, watching this happen. Thick strands of saliva are dripping from his open mouth and landing on the ground around his curled knuckles, his sharpened fangs bared in the cool air. He freezes, just watching me watching him.

Does he know what happened? Does he understand?

"Jerome?"

 _Sound. Hurt._

The usually kind face wrinkles in a terrifying snarl and he roars at me again, sending globs of white foam flying all over me. I can feel it dripping from my face and seeping into my hoodie. If I wasn't infected before, I definitely am now. "Jerome, can you hear me?" He stares at me wide-eyed and expressionless like a corpse, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as I slowly reach for the hilt of my sword. He would forgive me for this. He would understand. Maybe when we respawn, we can figure all of this out.

 _Sound. Stop sound._

The scraping of the sword in the scabbard is too much. He roars in pain at the sound and lunges forward, burying his teeth in the front of my throat. I can feel the ripping, tearing, stretching of the muscles and tendons as he shakes his head violently back and forth and skewers me with his long, dagger-like claws. As the blood and strength drain out of my body, I feel more and more like a rag doll. I can hear his teeth grating together as he quickly chews chunks of meat, and I can distantly feel him digging at my stomach to find more. The last thing I see is Jerome's huge, furry face dripping with bright white foam and red-black blood, his lips curled back in what almost looks like his usual sarcastic grin.

 _Sound. Gone._

This isn't what I planned for us.

I just wanted us to have some diamonds to gamble with.

Win with.

Enjoy life with.

That's all I wanted.

Now he's going to spread the virus and it's going to be an endless cycle of infection and respawning, all over the server.

This isn't the posh life I imagined.


	21. I Am Believing (Threequel to Endstone)

**This story is the threequel to "Endstone," and it is very, very, very loosely based on Lachlan's parody "I am Believing," which always sends my brain off on strange tangents.**

* * *

 **Lachlan:**

I saw it.

I saw what happened.

I saw what Vikk did.

Vikk… Out of everyone there, he was the one I would've least expected to do something like that. But I saw him do it.

I saw him kill Mitch.

Worst of all (or perhaps _best_ of all), I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who saw what happened. No one else has a clue, as far as I know. I'm the only one who can turn him in. Or am I the only one who can save him? Since no one else knows, I'm both the only person who can harm him, and the only person who can save him. The question is, what do I do?

Do I turn him in to the cops? Do I give him up before he can flee the country and testify at the trial while he stares up at me at the bench? Or do I keep my mouth shut and just let everything work itself out? Right now, it seems like it would be worked out in Vikk's favor – I doubt they have anything they can use against him when they have no witnesses and no tips. But should it work out in Mitch's favor? In Jerome's? In Preston's? In Rob's? In mine?

See, this is where things get sketchy. If I don't step up and turn him in, everyone else's lives go to hell, mine included. I know what really happened yesterday. I saw it happen. I see it over and over again every time I close my eyes. Every time I blink, even. Mitch is just dead. Jerome is savage right now and he's on the warpath to get some blood. Preston is beyond himself with horror and grief and hasn't stopped sobbing since it happened. Rob is a giant puddle of syrupy mush trying to hold Preston together and keep Jerome away from him. And I can't sleep. I can't even put my head down on the crispy, starchy pillows in this god-forsaken hotel room. I can't ignore the pain from the bruises that make my face feel like it's about to explode. I can still hear his scream as he started to fall. I can't stop imagining the sound and feeling of his neck snapping as his head smashed along the slope. It's like the Silent Hill version of nails on a chalkboard.

The only one who isn't bothered by this is Vikk. And logically, he should be the one who can't sleep, who can't move, who can't talk, who can't forget. He should be the one getting punished, not me and Jerome and Preston and Rob by extension.

So does that mean I should turn him in?

But this is _Vikk_ we're talking about! He's my boy, my mate, my bae, my partner in crime. I'd do anything for him, even if he doesn't feel the same way. He knows how I feel, he knows how he haunts me. He knows everything. He _knows_ me. But if I don't do something, I will be his actual partner in crime and be just as guilty as him, maybe even more. I have the chance to get him, for all of us, but can I bring myself to actually do it? Can I be the one to stuff Vikram Barn in a cage for the rest of his life? Can I afford to lose him?

I never had him in the first place. He was never mine. He never will be… unless… But could I do that? Could I use Mitch to get him? Would I be willing to use Mitch's dead body as barter for a relationship with Vikk? Could I live with myself if I did that? But could I live with myself if I turned him in? Is that any more moral? He's just so… perfect. He's perfect. We're perfect. Or we would be, if he could just see that. But now I can make him see that. Now I can make him see _me_. I finally have the chance I've been waiting for. Tonight's gonna be the big night, and it's definitely worth the big fight. It took Mitch's death to make Vikklan and Poofless real. It's a shame he had to die, yeah, but I'll take it.

 _Me: got a few?_

 _BaeStar123: For what?_

 _Me: just want to talk, mine or yours?_

 _BaeStar123: I'll be over in a few._

What took him so long to reply? My guess is he's packing so he can get the hell out of here at first light. Vikk was never the stupid one. He doesn't know for sure if anyone knows, and he wouldn't wait around to get nailed by the cops. I need to make up my mind before he walks back out the door of my room.

But my mind is already made up. Isn't it?

About five minutes later, he's knocking on the door of my room, fully dressed to run with his backpack on and his suitcase behind him. I'm the only thing keeping him here now. I beckon for him to come in and stick my head out in the hallway to see if anyone else is around to listen in. It sounds like Preston finally stopped bawling across the hall. I wonder what Rob had to do to get that to happen.

"What's going on, Lachlan?"

"Huh? Oh. Not a whole lot. Just… got a migraine from his crying. You're lucky you got the room next to Jerome."

"Yeah, it worked out pretty well, all things considered." He slides his backpack off and sits down on the bed, normal as you please. He doesn't look happy, sad, guilty, anything. It's like nothing even happened. I guess it's a good thing he's leaving in a few hours or that'd give him away. Nobody looks like that when one of their best friends bites the dust in front of their eyes. "What did you want to talk about?" I walk over and lean against the wall in front of the foot of the bed, our eyes locking together as he studies me. Before I know it, I'm trapped in his calm, coffee-coloured eyes, and nothing else seems to matter. He's mesmerizing. I can see the corners of his lips turn up in a smirk, and I notice that a sizeable layer of stubble has grown along his jaw overnight. What I wouldn't give to grow a beard that didn't make me look like a fourteen-year-old. A few more seconds pass before he starts laughing, and the sheer adorableness that is Vikk sends a hot flush up my neck and all over my face. I guess this is what they mean when they say someone is 'hot.'

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what?' You're like fifty shades of pink right now," he chuckles as he runs his fingers across his forehead to bring his hair back into line.

"You mean 'fifty shades of gay'."

"What?" Crap. I guess my mind is officially made up now, huh?

"Look, Vikk… I… Damn it. Why is this so hard?"

"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, I just want you to know that I already know."

"Oh, really? And what is it that you know?"

"I'm not stupid, Lachy. Everyone knows you like me. Even Mitch knew that." Wait, has Jerome been telling people behind my back, or… am I just that obvious?

"Then do _you_ like _me_?" This seems to take him by surprise somehow. He gets this weird, unreadable expression on his face. This doesn't look good.

"Lachlan, I…"

"You what, mate?" He laughs and straightens his hair again, trying to buy himself more time. Was this the right choice? Should I just let him leave and call the cops when the door shuts behind him? Can I even do that?

"Yes, I do like you. But it's because I like you that I can't like you."

"Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you actually serious right now?"

"It's not you. It's something I've done. I can't let it hurt you, so I have to let you go. You have to keep your distance from me, Lachlan."

"And why's that?" He sighs and pauses for a few seconds, his eyes locked onto mine while he rubs his hands together nervously.

"I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"I just can't."

"But maybe I could help you!"

"There's no helping me, Lachy. You just have to let it go."

"No. No. Now is not the time for singing, Vikk. I… I know what happened. With Mitch. I know what happened with Mitch. And I didn't tell anyone about it. You can trust me, Vikk. Just let me help you." It's like he's frozen in place in absolute horror. But it doesn't take long for him to pull himself together. He looks angry for a couple of seconds before he looks almost relieved. So does he trust me?

"You knew? And you still didn't tell them?"

"Of course I didn't tell them! How could I tell them? How could I let them-"

"You don't feel guilty?"

"I love you, Vikk. I wouldn't – I _couldn't_ – do that to you. You had your reasons, I'm sure. I've got your back, mate." He nods gently and just stares down at his hands for a few seconds before he gets up and walks over to the window, looking down over the tops of the buildings as the sun starts to rise behind our hotel. I give him a few seconds of space before I walk over to join him, peering down at all of the tiny people on the street below crunching through the hard snow. It's so cold out there I can even feel it through the window. I catch Vikk staring at the side of my face, but I don't look over at him. It's nice, knowing he's looking at me. It sounds strange, yeah, but after not knowing what he thought of me for so long… It's just nice. I'll do anything, I'd go anywhere for him.

"Hey, Lachlan?" he whispers as he puts his hand up on my shoulder and starts rubbing small circles through my jumper.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

* * *

 **Vikk:**

I grab my bags and slip into Lachlan's denim jacket, using the sleeve to open the door to the hotel room before I can hear the first scream from the street down below. There's a loud bang in Preston's hotel room, so they must be up already. I'm surprised I can't hear Preston sniffling yet. I need to get out of here before anyone can discover what really happened in the last twenty-four hours. With three different plane tickets booked at two different airports under three different names, let's see them try to stop me now. For all they know, I've already left the country and Lachlan jumped because he couldn't deal with losing Mitch. He always loved his Hunger Games.

I'll never forget the look on his face before his head hit the glass. Confused, shocked, scared, resigned. He had to have known what was going to happen when he told me. He had to have seen my trap to get him to admit that he knew. Lachlan was not a stupid person. A little naïve, yes, but not stupid, not like Preston. Preston would fall for anything, but Lachlan would only fall for me.

Yes, he fell for it.

Yes, he fell for me.


	22. Blue (Noochlessish)

**A whole new level of crack. A one-shot set in the same universe as "The Flower King." Based very loosely on the "Rabbit Song" by Boy & Bear.**

* * *

His secret's out. He showed them his true form, even though he swore he never would. And it looks like they're okay with him. Even Lachlan got over it, eventually. More than anything else, Rob was afraid that Preston wouldn't like him anymore, and wouldn't that just be a crying shame? Rob doesn't know what real desire feels like. It feels like hunger. Deep, insatiable hunger that nothing can satisfy. Nothing but _him_.

Yeah, I have a weakness for Rob the waffle-eating flower mob. Of course he's cute with his huge brown-green eyes and his derpy grin, but it's more than just that – his people taste so _good_. I've seen his actual body before, and it's a whole other kind of delicious. His leaves look smooth, shiny, and juicy, like freshly watered butter lettuce. And his flowers look so soft and sweet, like sugary silk. And he looks like he hasn't been pruned in a while. I just want to take a big bite out of him. I want to drain some of his sap and drizzle it over a plate of Woofless salad, with freshly picked rosebuds sprinkled on top. I'm making myself drool now. I wonder if eating all of that syrup made him sweeter. I can already taste his sugary lifeblood and I can feel the gentle tickle of his petals on my tongue. Maybe I can trim his roots a little and dry them out for a snack later on. Every pixel of him is irresistible.

It's a shame he'd never let me prune him. Flower mobs are very touchy when it comes to their overgrown limbs, and he definitely wouldn't let someone like _me_ do it. No, he would ask his precious lava mob to do it. He trusts him more than he trusts me, even though we've known each other longer. He's so paranoid that he won't even let me touch his leaves.

If a flower mob won't let a kara mob touch him, is that grounds to sue for discrimination? To be fair, our species were enemies for hundreds of autosaves and my people usually hunt flower mobs for sport… and eat them for dinner… while they're still alive… but he can't hold that against _me_ , right? I'm a nice guy. I've watered him a couple of times. I've cooked him some steaks and ground him some bonemeal. Most importantly, I didn't tell anyone his secret after I walked in on him photosynthesizing in the glass room at the top of his house. Why doesn't he trust me after that? I just want to help him out and trim a couple of his branches off and eat them. That doesn't sound so bad, right?

I slide my helmet and gloves off and set them aside on the floor next to my bed and stare out the window at the woods rustling in the distance. I wonder if he would still live up in the northern forest if Mitch and I hadn't found him that day. Mitch thought he was a humanoid like him, wandering around in the snowy woods by himself, covered in leaves with no clothes in sight. I took one look at him and knew what he really was – I could even smell it on him. He knew about me, too, as soon as he caught my scent. He took off running, but of course Mitch caught him. It's hard to lose track of a three-hundred kilo flower mob. No wonder the poor sucker can't parkour.

I search through my bag and pull out a handful of fresh carrots I'd stolen from Kweh Corp's farms today, running my claws through my whiskers to clean away the dirt and dust before I start eating. My ears slowly rise up against the wall behind my bed, reclining against the cool wood as they work out all the cramps. I hate having to stuff them down in that helmet every day, but who knows where I would be without it? People like me… we aren't treated kindly by most other Crafters. We prey on flower mobs, yeah, but pretty much everything else preys on _us_ , Baccas and Chocobos included. I don't want to end up on a stick by the end of the week, thank you very much.

Those sticks, though. I could make so many things out of his branches and trunk. He made his bow out of one of his own branches, and he left the thorns on it so no one would try to steal it from him. He's been slowly working his way up to a Power V bow, but I guess you can only cut off so many of your own limbs at a time. Lucky for him, they grow back.

That's what I don't get: why won't he let me trim off a couple of his branches and roots? Isn't it healthy for him to do that? Doesn't it help him grow better? He'd feel healthier, and I'd get a new bow and a few meals out of it. Maybe I should invite him around for dinner tomorrow and see how things go from there.

Maybe if I got him another present, he would trust me more.

But is he still that naïve?

It was Mitch who eventually persuaded him to come back to spawn with us. He didn't trust me at all. He wouldn't even walk in front of me for about thirty suntimes. I had to fix Choco's redstone machines in his factory to trade for enough blue wool to make that hoodie for him, but it was so worth. I'll never forget the look on his face when he saw the color blue for the first time. There aren't a lot of blue things in nature, and there's just something about that color that makes his brain go haywire. If it hadn't been for me showing him blue, he probably would have just gone back to his dirt home in the forest. So shouldn't he have to repay me for helping him become 'human'?

I would take such good care of him, if he would let me. I could make a redstone lamp that would make light for him all day and night so he would never have to eat anything but sunlight, bonemeal, and waffles ever again. I just want a few of his leaves every now and then, maybe a flower or two. He could spread his seeds all over the savanna biome outside and I could live off of the flowers and grass. His oxygen for my CO2, my inventions for his organic matter, maybe some seed to go around. Could it get any better than that?

We could make a good life together if he could just look past Preston and his glowing, flaming, crackling skin. Isn't Rob afraid he'd get burned? He could die if he got set on fire, or if Preston persuaded him to live with him in the Nether. He would lose so much of his biomass if he respawned. All of that hard-earned growth, gone. Compared to what Preston could do, why is he so scared of a pair of sheers? I wouldn't even use my teeth!

I'm not asking him to give Preston up – he could still have him, as long as he doesn't do it here. I have my six mates, so he could have a few others, too. We're both polyamorous species that usually end up with several hundred offspring. There's nothing wrong with him exchanging pollen with Preston if they're both into that. Everyone likes to have their stamens rubbed, am I right? As long as Preston keeps their kids at his house, everything would work out just peachy. I won't even eat any of their hatchlings. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me. So, what can I do to-

It finally clicks.

That's it.

Blue.

I toss the half-gnawed carrot aside and sprint downstairs on all fours, searching the chests for the rest of the blue pickles from my last mining expedition. No flower mob can resist freshly hardened clay or sunlight, and Rob in particular can't resist the color blue. If I make him a blue clay photosynthesis room with a redstone-powered glowstone lamp big enough to cover the ceiling, how will he be able to turn me down? It'll be the perfect farm. He'll grow so fast even _he_ won't believe it.

This flower mob is going to be mine. He belongs to me, and I'll take care of him better than a filthy, flaming lava mob could. Preston can have his 'Poofless' as long as he comes home for me to prune every night.

Fuck you, Preston.


	23. Crunch Time (Jeritos)

**Warning: This story is not for smut virgins, innocents, or people who are not comfortable with sexually explicit stories or obscene, morally dubious crack fics.**

 **Based on a prompt by MadiRosieFF on WattPad, and written to the tune of Jerome's theme "Dance of the Pixies" by MachinimaSound.**

* * *

 _Crunch._

Now this's the life. This's the kind of 'posh' I'm talkin' about. I've been dreaming about doing this since I was a kid, and now that I'm a grown-ass adult, I can do whatever the fuck I want. Well, as long as Mitch doesn't see it in time to stop me. He's too busy being a real grown-up and recording videos with Lachy downstairs to know what I'm doing right now. I think he thinks I'm editing. Pfft. Bacs don't edit at ten o'clock on Monday morning, Mitch. Crazy shit like that just doesn't happen.

I hear Kato whining under his breath outside the bathroom door and I grin as I open another party-sized bag of Doritos. The tangy aroma of fake cheese and powdered salsa fills my nostrils as I dump the bag on my head, filling the bathtub up another inch or so. I can hear the Rottweiler sniffling under the door and I grab another bag of chips from the pile of plastic Target bags on the floor next to the tub and dump it in. It's satisfying to watch the chips tumble down my shoulders and click together as they gather in a massive mountain down by my thighs. There's like half a foot of chips down at the other end of the tub and like two feet up by my stomach. There's cheese Doritos and ranch Doritos and flour, corn, and spicy cheese-flavored Tostitos. All the –itos in the world are in this tub. And they're all mine.

It's like going to one of those cheap acupuncture shops in New York, but like a million times less sketchy. And you can eat it. They're all sharp and pointy and rough and salty. Okay, maybe they're a little _too_ salty. They make my skin burn down below. But ya know what? GG no re. Best childhood porn fantasy, hands down. Every time I move, even when I _breathe_ , the chips move and sharp corners dig into my skin. It's like having a back scratch all over your body. That you can _eat_. What could be better than that?

I pop a plain Tostito in my mouth and settle back against the side of the tub, _crunching_ and _snapping_ my ass in place. That's such a satisfying sound. Rough edges and grainy salt rub against my skin, and it feels rougher and sharper every second. I didn't even hafta watch a XXX video to get it going! Who knew chips could do that? Well, maybe Lachlan knew… But now isn't the time to contemplate the adventures of Lachy's Little Cocky. I've got some chips to eat.

 _Scratch._

 _Poke._

 _Crunch._

 _Stab._

With every heartbeat, dozens of chips are pricking my prick. It's like humping a cactus, but without all the whining. I grab a handful of whatever's on top, and two different kinds of spicy cheese fill my mouth with their burning glory. I take a big breath and the sweet scent of their trademarked Cool Ranch makes my head feel light. Somewhere along the line, my hips started bucking up, sending puffs of cold air through the cracks in the blanket of warm chips. I don't know how it's supposed to work, but my body's trying to fuck a pile of tortilla chips. There has to be a Facebook group about this somewhere. Maybe Reddit has a thread, or twenty. Wait…

Would it be better with salsa? Has anyone done research on this?

How about that creamy ranch shit no one actually likes to eat?

How would it feel to have cool, slimy, creamy ranch sliding down my-

Before I even know it's happening, my body's done shaking and quaking and there's a stripe of creamy ranch on a handful of chips in front of me. I pick up a plain Tostito that got caught in the crossfire and pop it into my mouth, feeling like a contestant on Fear Factor. Or on Mitch's Death Cup horror show. I chew it once, twice, thrice, and… Blegh. It tastes almost like Brussels sprouts. Ugh. Too healthy. I swallow it and catch myself making a face in the shiny silver faucet, and I grab a handful of cheesy Doritos to wash it down with. The make-believe cheese is a pleasant relief.

At least I can say I tried it.

I eat the dry chips on top until my thighs don't feel shaky and weak anymore, then I carefully stand up out of the tub and shake the crumbs off. I look in the mirror and see that, surprisingly, the only place that's completely covered in chip dust is my tip. Unless you got close enough to smell my new cheesy, ranchy, salty armesan odor, or you pulled down my pants to get a peek, you'd never know what happened. Good deal. I slip back into my clean swim trunks and grab a beach towel from under the sink. I'mma get away scot-free with no big, blue, confused eyes staring into my deep, dark soul.

"Pssst. Kato. Whatcha up to, bud?" The dog whines pitifully at me from under the door and I hear his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. I check my back and chest out again in the mirror and slip my slowly weakening cock into the waistband of my trunks to hide the visible weather vane and carefully, silently open the door to reveal both of Ryan's dogs bowing down in front of the door, tails wagging and tongues drooling. "Coop, Kato. Wanna treat? Come here. Come get a treat. Good boys. Good boys!" I lead them over to the tub full of tortilla chips and turn around to leave, the sweet sound of furious crunching filling the tile room behind me.

I take the stairs two at a time and run outside, tossing the towel aside on the lounger before I dive feet-first into the pool. Now there's no proof that I did anything. Ryan's making his half of the Troll Pack boxes at the warehouse while we 'watch' his dogs, and Benj and Lachlan are recording something in their computer rooms. This pool has seen its share of horrors. My cock stings for a few seconds while the salt dissolves and gets washed away, then it's like nothing happened.

The cold water washed away all the evidence.

Well, most of it.

Cooper and Kato took care of the rest.


	24. Superstar (Locklan)

**Written to the tune of "My Heart" by Different Heaven and EH!DE, released by NCS. We do things like this because we love them. I swear.**

* * *

"Hey, Mitch? How long's he been in there now?"

"A while."

"Whaddaya think he's doing?" Mitch looks over at me with his bitchface and pulls his phone out of his pocket to scroll through Twitter for the millionth time. Lachlan's been in the guest bathroom for like forty minutes now without a peep. Either all that Chipotle's catching up to him after a month of eating pretty much nothing else, or he's up to no good. No matter what, it's not lookin' good for the poor toilet. "He was already dressed, so I don't think he's gettin' all dolled up in there. He acts like he's a fucking supermodel."

"Maybe he's putting his makeup on."

"Wait… Lachlan wears makeup?" Mitch snickers at me and locks his phone with a click, tapping his bare feet impatiently on the floor in front of him. The only time we ever use the living room is when Lachy's here and we're waiting for him to get his ass in gear. We don't even use the TV in here.

"No, Jerome, Lachlan does not wear makeup. At least, not as far as I know. Maybe you should go ask him about that and tell him to get a move on."

"Pfffft. I'm not goin' over there, Mitch. I'm not _that_ stupid. I don't wanna die. Have you ever had the displeasure of walking behind Burrito Butt?" Mitch just blinks at me. "Didn't think so. A Bac knows-"

"Ready?" Lachlan yells down the hall, his chest rising and falling rapidly like he just ran a mile. What the fuck was he doing in there that made him all breathless? Maybe I don't wanna know.

"Yeah, 'course. Hey, you okay bud?"

"Brilliant. Let's go get some food, boys!" Mitch and I look at each other and he shrugs, slipping his flip-flops on to follow the big blonde kid running out to get in the car. We wait until the door shuts behind him before Mitch turns to me with a smirk.

"He spent all that time doing his hair. His gorgeous golden locks," he cackles, jokingly running his fingers through his own carefully spiked hair with a disgusting kissy face.

"Yeah, so? I mean, we knew the guy was vain, but-"

"Don't you get it, Jerome? He didn't take anything with him into the bathroom. And no one keeps their stuff in there."

"What're you trying to say?"

"I think Lachlan uses organic hair gel." With that, he's gone, following the Australian supermodel out to the car. Wait, so he spent all that time… Oh. _Ugh_.

"Dear god, Mitch. There's no way that could be right."

"Why don't you pet him and find out?"

"I'm not gonna go out there and pet Lachlan, Mitch. Who the fuck do you think I am? Rob?"


	25. M8therf8cking Zubats (Posh Life 2)

**M*therf*cking Zubats (in the M*therf*cking Cave) - The Sequel to Posh Life**

* * *

 **Lachlan:**

Dammit, Pete. Damn you and your stupid, gaudy Fancy Pants, and your stupid, rigged casino, and your stupid, addictive games. I don't even _like_ caving, but I'm stuck grinding on cave walls all day and night trying to get enough rich man swag that you'll let me into your casino. I already know how this is gonna go, and it's not gonna be pretty.

I'm gonna lose, I lose it all. I'm gonna lose all day. I'm not screaming. No, I'm not screaming… Should've stayed home and played the Hunger Games. It's already dark out when I make it back to the surface and the moon's halfway across the sky. Dammit, Pete. I've had enough of these fucking caves already.

I start walking back to my house, hoping to make it back before suntime. That's the bad thing about living near all of your friends – they use up all the resources and you have to walk like two hundred blocks to find anything but coal, Zubat turds, and lapis lashitlump. This sucks, boys.

I can see the torches at Spawn when I hear it behind me. Just another zombie, I'm sure. I turn around and prepare to smash its green, ugly face in, but I can't get my sword out in time. Something big, hairy, and wet tackles me to the ground and starts clawing at my back, dragging giant sharp talons along the back of my armour. I'm glad I wore it, after all. I dig the hilt of my sword into the back of its head and make a run for it while it's stunned. Whatever it is, it's a pretty big mob. I grab a torch out of my bag and hold it out toward the monster, gasping when it roars furiously at the glowing light.

"Jerome? What are you doing out here, mate?" His little black eyes glare at the flaming torch for a few seconds before he snarls and lunges toward me again, a stream of thick, pink spit flying through the air behind him. This isn't a good sign. "Jerome! Bruh, what're you trying to do? Back off, mate, or this's gonna hurt." The crazed Bacca can't even hear me as he darts forward again and clamps down on my arm, gnawing pointlessly at the iron armour. I knee him in the ribs and smack him alongside the head with the sword before he knocks the weapon clean out of my hands.

Fuck.

He pins me to the ground and looks down at me blankly as he latches onto the side of my bare neck. I watch in horror as globs of bloody foam drip from his gaping mouth and down my neck and face. Wherever he caught the rabies, he sure was generous passing it around. First time I've heard of a Bacca being generous with anything but vile creatures and handfuls of their own hair. I stretch out behind me and reach as far as I can, slowly scooting the sword close enough for me to grab. I snatch it up and bring the blade up next to his head and swing it as hard as I can, slicing the blade right though his thick, furry neck. With a giant splash of hot red blood, Jerome's frothing head falls off to the side, and I try my best to wipe his fluids off of my face. I get to my feet and slowly make my way to the rocky outcropping in the side of the mountain, choosing to wait the night out there rather than risk trekking back to my house at this time of day.

I'll make it back in the morning when the mobs do their morning suicide.

It's so hard to even walk. I lean against the rock and slide down to rest on the ground.

Not too much longer, Lachlan. Just stay awake, mate.

Just stay awake. Or you'll end up like Jerome.

* * *

 **Vikk:**

"Lachlan?" I listen for the sound of him groaning upstairs, or for some badly remixed techno song from his DJ Skellex collection. Nothing. "Hey, Lachlan?" I walk toward the elevator and take it upstairs, walking past his beloved Zubat hanging upside down on its perch to look for any sign of its master. The little fucker hisses at me and makes that god-awful twittering noise it does whenever Lachlan feeds it silverfish. I told him that thing probably had all kinds of diseases, but of course he doesn't listen to _me_. Who brings an unwashed, untrained wild animal into their house to live with them? It sniffs the air behind me and its grotesque, eyeless face follows me as I walk around the room.

It smells dusty in here, vacant. There's no sound besides the restless Zubat's rustling, and I decide that Lachlan hasn't been here for at least three days. The apples he had stolen from the trees at the edge of Choco's massive industrial farm have started to rot on the table and yesterday's rain has leaked through a hole in his roof to turn the wooden floor into a mushy, bubbly mess. No, he definitely hasn't been here in a while.

I remember he said he was going to go mining for the grand reopening of the Fancy Pants Casino, but he isn't the sort of person to spend days upon days down in the mines. Did something happen to him?

I pass by the hostile, sullen Zubat one last time and hiss back at it, watching it bear its rows of glittering yellow teeth as I step into the famous slime elevator. I hear the little blue horror flapping around upstairs before it either settles down or heads out through the hole in the roof. Watch, I'll get blamed for that now. With one last glance inside Lachlan's empty house, I head toward Spawn to start searching for him. It's late afternoon and suntime is almost over, and I make it there just in time to check the map to see where the new community mines are. One hundred seventy-five blocks northwest from here through the trees, past Jerome and Rob's houses. I can already hear the mobs rustling through the leaves and branches on the forest floor so I unsheathe my sword and begin walking. I can't just let him suffer down there if he got himself into some trouble. Only about fifty blocks into the woods, everything seems to fall silent. Even the spiders have stopped scuttling around. Either I found a lucky spot with no recent spawns, or something much more dangerous is lurking around here.

 _Snap_.

Something snaps a twig behind me and I turn around immediately with my diamond sword raised, prepared to strike. My breathing picks up and my muscles tense, ready to swing… when out of the trees steps Lachlan, hair mussed and mud smeared across his face. He doesn't look happy, but neither would you if you spent three days stuck in a cave.

"Lachy? What are you doing out here?" He shuffles forward with his head tilted back, his jaw clenched in anger. What could have happened out there that pissed him off so much? "Hey, Lachlan?" His eyes widen like he just realized I was here, and he makes this… horrible smile. It's almost like he's baring his teeth like his filthy Zubat. He begins walking toward me quickly with his arms flexed awkwardly at his sides, like he wants to grab me if I try to escape.

I turn to make a run for it and nearly knock myself out with a tree branch, quickly darting between the trees to try to make it back to Spawn and away from this zombified Lachlan in his blood-stained armour. I scale up the ladder on the side of Nooch's miniature casino and pull out my bow to keep the humanoid with the empty blue-red eyes away. I aim for the throat, the only spot not covered in scratched silver armour. One shot barely fazes him, two shots make him growl in anger, three shots send him falling backward in pain. With one final arrow, his writhing body falls limp on the ground, a pool of dark blood growing around the massive hole in his neck. Even after everything he's been through, he's still wearing that awful iron armour he made when he first joined this server. Typical Lachy.

A sharp pain in my ear nearly sends me tumbling off of the side of the building and I clutch onto the railing for dear life. Lachlan's homely little midnight blue Zubat titters at me as it flies away from the side of my head, its stomach covered in dark, wet blood. I hold my hand up to my ear to see that it is bleeding profusely.

"Lachlan and his motherfucking bats. He's going to kill us all someday." He's going to hear all about this when he respawns tomorrow, you can bet on it. I repack my bow and slide my sword out of its sheath, swatting at the obnoxious Zubat as I walk past Lachlan's mutilated corpse. The nasty little flying rat is clinging to its dead master's armour, its tiny claws clicking along the cheap iron chestplate. Its head follows me as I walk out of the clearing toward my house, its purple tongue lapping up the poisoned blood leaking out of the humanoid's ragged neck. "Ten out of ten rabid rodents. Ten outta ten, mate."


	26. New Message (Merome)

Michelle. Mitchell. Michelle. Mitchell. Mi-shell. Mitch-shell. Mitch-elle. Mit-chelle. Mitchelle.

If you say it fast enough, it sounds the same.

If you say it enough times, it doesn't make sense anymore.

It doesn't mean anything.

But of course it means the world to you, Mitch. I still get the bitchface whenever I slip up once in a blue moon or don't say it perfectly clear. I don't mess up as much as I did before, back when you first changed your name and started spiking your hair. I haven't screwed up and called you 'she' in years. I never told anyone your secret. It's just you and your family and me and my family that knows. And you know I'd never tell.

Remember the good ol' days when our parents used to sit around and joke about us getting married someday? You in a big, ugly ass white dress and me in a cheesy, frilly black tux? I'd just laugh it off, and you'd make that awful fucking face just thinking about it. Hell, I've worn more dresses in my lifetime than you have in yours. You've always had more of that machisimo shit than I have, even way back in the day. And now, my boobs are bigger than yours. It must be all that Halloween candy. Things've changed a lot in twelve years, huh? Bullies, tears, moving, shrinks, doctors, ASF, pills, needles, computers, Minecraft, subscribers, stitches, autographs, pain killers, conventions, friends, lies, lies, lies.

And now you're dating this new girl. How long do you think you're gonna be able to keep the lies coming, Mitch? How long do you think she's gonna buy it? How long is she gonna stick around when she finds out? And whaddaya think she's gonna do then? Keep her mouth shut? Keep your secret? When you have all this money and she has all these dreams?

How're you gonna hide it? How're you gonna explain the needles? Say you use testosterone cypionate to treat diabetes? Even _she_ wouldn't believe that. Do ya think she's gonna buy some lame ass excuse when you hafta explain to her why you have to strap your cock on? What about the other stuff you've got down there? Not sayin' it's a bad thing, but it might be kinda surprising to see her boyfriend has that, too. What about when she wants to have kids some day? How the hell's that gonna fly? It's not. It's gonna fly right out the window and crash and burn in our nasty, rotten egg-filled pool. She hasn't been to hell and back with you a million times like I have. She won't accept you no matter what like I always have. She won't understand, Mitch, not like I do.

God dammit, man. It's so fucking obvious, but you still won't look at it and call it what it is. You can call a fucking rose a palm tree as many times as you want, that ain't gonna change what it is. It's still gonna smell as sickly sweet even if you won't sniff it. This isn't one of Rob's philosophical bullshit sessions. Not going there today. It isn't Saturday night. We aren't drunk and going up like Nooch on a Tuesday. This is real, no matter how hard you try to deny it and no matter how hard you wish it wasn't real.

You say things without trying to say anything, and you don't say the things a regular friend would say because you're so scared that I'll take it the wrong way. Things aren't as laidback and comfy like they used to be because we're both walking on glass and trying not to say something that might be heard wrong. We can't even say we miss each other when you go home for two weeks and leave me here in fucking Floorland by myself. You can act all stoic if ya want, but I know you miss me, too. Why's it so bad to say something like that?

We should talk about this. We should get back on the same page instead of trying to hand the book off to someone else. Ain't no one got time to read that shit, man. Ain't no one wanna see how miserable and stupid this whole thing is. Even Walmart wouldn't sell this bullshit. Not even on Black Friday.

Thing is, Mitch, I love the fuck out of you but you won't even give me the time of day to talk about it for a second. Not even a second. That's how goddamn stubborn you are. And you won't take a good look at what you've got with _her_ and see how fucked up that is, either.

How do you think it's gonna go? Do you think you're gonna tell her the truth and she'll just get over it and accept you, anyway? That she'll still say she loves you and mean it? Good luck with that. I get why you don't wanna tell people right off the bat. I get that. It's none of their fucking business. Your life, your body, your rules. But you can't expect nothing to change when you spring something like that on 'em, either. You can't just go around pretending nothing's up and making big dick jokes, then suddenly turn around one day and tell them you're a transguy. I know it's not right for people to judge like that, but reality sucks elephant balls, what can I say? I don't wanna say she'll run away, but she'll probably run away. And I don't wanna say 'I told you so,' but… I can already tell you how this's gonna go. I don't think you know her as well as you think you do. Things seemed better with Ash because she was online, halfway around the world where she couldn't feel you up or walk in on you changing. She didn't know the truth when things went south between you. And you knew you could _trust_ her if she did find out 'cause she's a decent person and her ass'd be on the line, too. She had almost as much to lose as you did.

Tell me, Mitch: what does Melanie have to lose?

What can she get out of it?

Blackmail's a big thing these days, Biggums. It's a real big thing. And you know a thing or two about big things. You're one of the biggest things on the interwebs right now. Is she really worth that risk? That pain? That insecurity? That doubt? Is a relationship with a flaky girl you met six months ago really worth all that? Don't you see how she'd use you?

You know who never ratted you out, even when shit got real and the chips came down? Me. You know for a fact I'd never sell you out. And I've been there through all of it – all the tears, the fears, the betrayals, the failures. And I'm still here. I'll _always_ be here, whether you want me here or not. I'd do anything for you. Hell, I moved down to fucking overpriced-roachfest-doucheland-Florida for you! Talk about a salty stride! I told you from the get-go I'd hate it here, and I do. I'm only here because of you. I'm here for you, Mitch. And you didn't even hafta buy me a designer purse to get me here.

Because I know how to keep a promise.

Remember the good ol' days back in Jersey, way back in middle school? When we used to just piss the day away dreaming stupid things and making impossible promises? We got the big ass fancy beach house way up in the west hills we said we'd buy, and I know you've been eyeing Vikk's shiny new sports car. We've got a 3D TV downstairs and a fifty-incher in your bedroom that you never use to watch TV, and we've got a nasty ass pool full of eggshells, Mexican soda, piñata confetti, chili powder, socks, and all kinds of other grody shit. We don't even hafta clean it ourselves or scrape the baked-on eggs off the back wall. We made it big time, man, just like we said we would. And we made it here together doing what we love. But it looks like I'm the only one who didn't forget about that ugly ass diamond ring my grandma wore for fifty years and passed down to whoever would take it when she died. Hell, I'll wear the gaudy thing if you hate it that much. We bought us a new life down here, but I don't wanna see that change us, Mitch. I just wanna hold onto this one last thing.

A promise is a promise, right?

It's funny how you never talk about any of it. I mean, yeah, we were ten years old and dumb and naïve and half-listening to our parents babble on and on, but does that mean it was a lie? Did you ever feel anything or were you just saying that to make them stop calling me your boyfriend? Is that why you never brought it up after you came out? 'Cause you didn't think they'd take you seriously if you said you were a girl who was really a guy who liked guys? You know you moved out two years ago, right? You're a free man now. You can do whatever the hell you want now. And what're they gonna do? Kick you outta the family? After everything you all went through these last few years? Let's be realistic, Biggums – they probably won't even be surprised. I think they were expecting it when we moved in together. They were probably more shocked when you brought _her_ home with you.

The only one who doesn't think it's obvious is you.

I know you can see it, or at least you used to. My mom used to joke how those engraved dog tags were just a promise ring in disguise. And they hafta mean _something_ to you. I mean, come on, Mitch. You still wear 'em four years later and you even put 'em on your Minecraft skin. They're legendary, immortalized in the eternally squinted eyes of the internet. So what do they mean to you? That you still have your trusty sidekick after all these years? That we're gonna be best friends forever, like we always said we would? That you just might be in denial about us?

You have to say something. I'm tired of speculating about this. It's turned into this big ass conspiracy theory that just hangs over my head, day in, day out. This isn't fucking Mythbusters. We aren't trying to kill the goddamn chupacabra here.

You know I won't take no for an answer. Not that easily. I'd take a no at this point. And I'd love a maybe. I'm not gonna hope for a yes because I know you too well and you never say yes to anything but second-helpings and ping pong. I just want some kind of answer from you. Not a bitchface, either. I want a word. Just one word. That's all this big, dumb Bac wants.

After all the shit we've been through together, after all the things we've said, after everything we've _accomplished_ … How could you still pick her over me?

She might make you think you're happy.

Yeah, maybe for a minute or two.

She can't make you laugh.

No, she can't make you feel the way that I do.

Dammit, Mitch. I don't know why sometimes, but I love you.

 _Message sent._

* * *

 **Based on the song "I Will Buy You a New Life" by Everclear.**


	27. The Worst Pies in London (PieStar314)

**Warning: This one-shot is not intended for anyone who is easily disturbed, anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit stories, or anyone who is trying to eat. Although the viewpoint may seem to shift at times, it only does so within the narrator's mind. Based on the song "The Worst Pies in London" from the Sweeney Todd Broadway production.**

* * *

 **Vik:**

Slick, glistening, tender, juicy, sweet. I fold the lid of the small cardboard box from the pie shop shut and slide it on top of the other two on the front porch of the Sidemen house, then I tuck the note into the corner of the top one. I can still feel the heat of the freshly baked pot pie on my face as I walk back toward the front door, checking around me to make sure I hadn't left anything behind. They'll be paying soon, and they have no idea. I've waited so long to put this plan into action. I jog away from the front of the house and slip in through the unlocked back door, hurrying silently up the stairs before creeping into the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. They've probably forgotten about my vendetta by now. We'll see if revenge is best served frozen.

I check the camera feeds on the spare computer, making sure that everything is working and everything is in place before I reach over and ring the doorbell button on the alarm system speaker. I start recording. I turn the microphones off, preferring to watch their reactions than hear them. I've gone through the act so many times in my head that I know their dialogue by heart. Nobody knows this story better than I do.

There's a pause and a few yells while they wait for me to go get the door, as always. When there's no answer, Josh finally gets off his ass to see what it's about. He peers out the peep hole and looks around before opening the door, cautiously bending over to grab the note off of the top of the stack of boxes. I know that note by heart, too:

 _The worst pies in London for the worst housemates in the world._

 _Happy two year anniversary of Sidemen House._

 _-PieStar314_

He doesn't look impressed, but that wouldn't be a first time. He stoops over and grabs the stack of boxes, kicking the door shut behind him and yelling up the stairs for the other two to see what woke him up. At the mention of food, JJ darts down the hall and jumps down the flight of stairs, landing centimeters away from the precarious stack of meat pies. Now the show begins.

They head to the kitchen after JJ swipes the top box, his eyes rolling back in his head at the heady scent of the perfectly seasoned meat. If only they knew. After all of this, they'll probably try to actually murder me. Even then, no one will ever top this. Nothing can compare to this feeling. Once you get your first taste, you never go back.

They promptly tuck in, Josh texting Simon to leave his recording go to join them before JJ devours the counter and everything on it. I can feel their pleasure, their surprise from all the way up here as they savour the sweet, tender chunks of meat. Oh, how difficult that meat was to get. It took months to plan the path inside the house to get it and oh, how he screamed! He screamed and no one heard him! Yet again, who ever listened to Vik to begin with? He swore they'd pay someday after he left, after he was long gone. They'll regret brushing him off like that. Ignoring him. Belittling him. It's too late to apologise now, isn't it?

He tried to fight but he didn't have much of a chance. The other three might've gotten away, but not Vik. He gave up about halfway through the tenderising process when the sobbing started and the skin started weakening. Drop by drop, tear by tear until he was nothing but a shaking, shuddering mess on the warehouse floor with his arms bound behind his back. Perhaps he thought it would end faster if he didn't fight back; he was very, very sorely mistaken. Lines turned into cuts, cuts turned into slices, slices turned into chops, and chops turned into cutlets. Before long, there was very little left of him, and he was certainly sticky.

It was such good meat – hardly any fat to be found, unlike some of the other stock we've seen. In less than three hours, he was cut, seasoned, and baked in fresh, flaky pie crusts. Oh… Just thinking of it makes me drool. The juicy young meat, the hearty gravy, the crispy vegetables, the layered crust… Nothing else could've done him justice. Such perfection.

Simon finally rounds the corner out of his room and heads down the stairs, pocketing his phone as I unpocket my anxious shaft. I never imagined this fantasy coming true, not while I was alive. To think I could witness part of my own death, and while I was in the same house at that! They'll remember this until their death days, bet on it.

JJ and Josh are well on their way to finishing their meaty treats by the time Simon reaches the kitchen and grabs a fork and the pie from the bottom of the stack. All according to plan, boys. They chat about something insignificant and I watch their mouths chew furiously, awaiting the moment of discovery. How does that taste, JJ? Is it salty enough for you, Simon? What about you, Josh? Is it as good as your grandmother's pies? Is it satisfying? Does it soothe that burning hunger deep down in your stomach, the one that pulls at your heart and lurks at the edge of your mind? I wonder how much it will hurt when you realize what you've done, that you've eaten me. I was gone for a whole day, and you didn't even notice. Does that make you responsible? How does that _feel_?

Simon's face freezes and his brow creases as he reaches up to dig something out of his mouth. Oh dear. What have we here, boys? It takes a few seconds for him to recognise the object, and it doesn't seem like he knows how to react. What did you find, Simon? Josh stops eating a few seconds later, his fork still clutched tightly in his hand as he peers over at the shiny white object pinched between Simon's fingers. That's a human tooth, isn't that? What have you been eating? Oh, no. But that couldn't be right, could it? JJ continues his meal, oblivious to the consternation of the other two. Josh's fork slowly comes to rest on the table, and Simon looks… Bewildered? Horrified? Lost? He continues staring blankly down at the steaming fresh meat pie in front of him while Josh punches JJ in the arm to make him stop eating. They reach over and begin digging through Simon's pie, pulling out another tooth and chunk after chunk of short black hair. 'What have we done?' they'll say. And they were enjoying it so much. Pity things had to turn out this way.

Oh, the moment I've been waiting for has come, and now I'll have it forever on my hard drive to watch as often as I'd like. I quickly back it up to my DropBox before they discover me and try to delete it. Everything from this point on is just bonus footage. The thrusts speed up and the breathing gets harder and faster as the forks drop to the table and the screams echo off of the walls downstairs. I don't need a remote microphone to hear their delightful shrieks. The sound echoes in my ears and pushes me closer and closer to the edge.

They loved that, didn't they? They savoured the taste on their tongues, they moaned at the tenderness of the meat, they remarked on its juiciness. Whether they'll admit it or not, that was the best pie they've ever had. They'll certainly never forget it, will they? They might never eat another pot pie, but this one will stay with them forever. It'll haunt them at night, when the computers are turned off and the phones are cast aside. They'll think back to this day and silently revel in their enjoyment, their horror. They would never say it aloud, but they secretly wish they could experience it again. All of it. The first look, the smell, the taste, the discovery, the realisation. They actually loved it, deep down inside where no one else can see. They dream about it. They wish it had been them.

I can't hold it back anymore, and I shudder as the darkness of my thoughts pushes me through the thick wall of pleasure separating then from now. I quickly clean up my mess and pocket the tissue, hiding the only piece of evidence that would indicate what really happened today; they don't need to know that it was anything but a malicious prank, and they dare not try to take revenge, fearing what I would do next. I carefully tuck myself back into my jeans and buckle my belt, ensuring that nothing incriminating can be seen.

Josh and JJ shove themselves away from the table and sprint upstairs, knocking furiously at my door down the hall. I can hear them screaming my name from only a couple meters away, and JJ shoves Josh aside to slam himself into the locked door. Four, five times he body slams the heavily stickered door before the handle gives way and reveals an empty room. But not just any empty room.

The window screen is nowhere to be found and the glass pane is partly ajar, cooling the room with the chilly autumn air outside. The mattress and bedspread have been thrown aside off of the bed and the computer chair is lying down on its side amid a sea of orange-brown leaves, pens, and papers. Miniscule drops of crimson fake blood are splattered on the desk and walls, and Josh covers his mouth with his hands when he sees the dark red stain leading up toward the open window. JJ looks around the room helplessly, trying to process what had happened.

Then he lets out an almighty shriek.

I'll never forget that sound.

Simon jolts back to life downstairs, dropping the tooth he had been examining down on the table before heading upstairs to join the others. JJ is flailing his arms hopelessly in shock, not sure what else he can do – he is beyond words now. Josh slowly walks across the landing to the closet and grabs the first weapon he can find: a wooden plank from one of their many bad ideas. He creeps down the hall, carefully checking each room before moving onto the next. At last, he is in front of the guest bedroom, his face hidden from the camera but undoubtedly reflecting the horror of his realisation. Someone is in here, and he doesn't know who. I turn the desk chair toward the door and cross my arms, prepared to memorise the expression of terror, resignation, and fury when he learns what I've done.

Was I a little too Vik-cious, boys?


	28. Leftovers (Midge)

**Warning: This story is not intended for innocents, smut virgins, or anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit content. This story was written while listening to "Livin' in the Fridge" by Weird Al, as if it needs an additional layer of crack.**

* * *

 **Mitch:**

Lachlan quietly shuts and locks the front door, looking anxiously around the dark house while he pockets the spare set of house keys and clutches the precious brown paper bag. The Uber driver pulls away from the curb and the headlights flash one last time on the windows of the house across the street before the black car turns around the corner and disappears. He checks around himself once, twice before he quickly creeps down the hallway to his temporary room and locks the door with a soft _click_. He thinks he's home free. Whenever he sneaks out at night to go on one of his secret Chipotle raids, he always comes back acting more suspiciously than the time before – ducking around corners, hiding behind furniture, peering out into the hallway before he hurries over to the bathroom hours later. He acts like an abused dog, preparing for its owner to whip it with a ruler. I give him a few minutes to settle down, waiting until the crinkling of the bag has stopped before I walk from the window seat in the empty sunroom to the kitchen down the hall. Jerome has been asleep for a while, and now that Lachlan will be occupied for at least an hour, I have the kitchen all to myself.

The Bacca really outdid himself this time: he ordered a precooked (and, thankfully, unburnable) Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings from some catering company, his attempt at a pity-ploy when I left for the weekend to visit my family and Lachlan refused to put his burrito down long enough to go with him to a high-class buffet for the afternoon. It would be almost pitiful, if Jerome could make a facial expression that looked anything remotely close to 'pitiful.' Every selfie he sent me over the weekend looked more hideously disturbing than the last, and the final picture was just his unfocused nose covered in chunky cranberry sauce. It was his choice not to go on the cruise with his extended family, and there was no way I was going to hear Dad rant about the importance of family again this year. I would rather try to take a bite out of Lachlan's beloved chicken burrito than go through all that again.

I turn the dim surface light on the microwave on to avoid attracting Lachlan's attention, then I grab a paper plate from the cupboard and head over to the fridge. I run my fingers up and down the cool, smooth metal handle while I consider the available options, pausing when I see that there is still a small cut of roasted turkey left. Jerome must be sick if he left this beauty in here this long, especially now that I'm home. I snatch the container of chilled meat and the styrofoam cup of gravy, listening closely in the near-silence for the soft pad of slippered feet on the wooden floor. Satisfied with the quiet, I peel open the cardboard lid of the turkey and take a big whiff of the perfectly seasoned bird, the chill of the refrigerated container gently burning my cheeks. I don't bother warming the food up; it would dry out the thin slab of meat, and the noise would probably give me away and start a heated argument with a tired, hungry Bacca. He was still salty about my trip home without him when my flight landed this morning, so I don't want to push my luck tonight when the neighbors are trying to sleep. I pop open the cup of gravy and carefully drizzle it over the smooth, slick, rounded cut of meat. It looks appetizing in more ways than one. This is one of those beautiful moments when there is no one around to ruin the fun, and I'm going to take full advantage of it.

I lean back against the cold metal of the fridge, gently rubbing the space between my shoulderblades on the ridged handles. This is better than a masseuse, and it doesn't complain or ask for anything in return. I suck the stray droplet of turkey gravy off my left thumb, using the reflection in the glass patio doors to peer around the corners. I feel like Lachlan, creeping around in the middle of the night, doing unspeakable things that no one should ever be forced to accidentally walk in on. Yeah, we have a pretty good idea of what goes on behind that closed door at the end of the hallway, whether he wants to admit to it or not. At this point, Jerome ships Chipotlan harder than he ships Vikklan, which is really, _really_ saying something. He even persuaded Lachlan that Americans give gifts at Thanksgiving just so he could get him to take the glittering Chipotle gift card he bought him to run his little experiment. I might have felt bad about joining in on the lie if he hadn't started fidgeting in his chair thirty seconds later, with his eyes glazed over and his hands moving down below the table to supposedly put the card away in a wallet that should have been in his back pocket. Apparently, I'm not the only one who gets creative when he gets lonely.

My fingers slowly trail through the pool of ice cold gravy as they pull the edges of the chunk of turkey breast apart, forming a sharp crease down the middle of the slab. A plan immediately begins to form. I tear off a small piece and immediately know that any consequences of letting my stomach betray Jerome are beyond worth it. The rich, salty flavor fills my mouth as I lean back against the curve of the fridge, resting against the perfectly shaped door handles. The meat is sweet, cool, and glistening wet, reflecting the glow from the microwave light in its topmost layer of thick juices. It reminds me of an experiment my last girlfriend and I did when I visited her over the summer, except this gravy isn't smeared over fries or warm body parts and this meal doesn't expect me to buy it lunch tomorrow as a bribe. The intoxicating scent of the turkey draws me in and I carefully set the tin foil pan down on the counter and get to work.

The plump curves of the turkey breast make the gravy flow toward the crevice in the middle of the slab, where it slowly pools in a thick, tangy puddle. I start at the top, cleaning out a portion of the liquid before it can cling to my face and slide up my nose like a syrupy drug. I'm almost finished with the deep end of the pool when Lachlan starts choking on something down the hall, causing me to jump and splatter a few drops of brown gravy on the front of my white t-shirt. I curse at him under my breath, grabbing the collar of my shirt and bringing the lost drops up to my lips, sucking the salty sauce out of the fabric while the faint chemical scent of laundry detergent and body spray overpowers the sweet smell of the meat. I glance down the hallway and in the reflection in the patio doors, checking to see if Lachlan's spluttering coughs had woken the raging Bacca up. The coast is clear.

My head dips back down towards the rapidly warming turkey, my tongue carefully cleaning up the spilled juices while my teeth gently graze the slick meat. No fights, no drama, no crying – just ecstasy.

* * *

 **Jerome:**

Fuck. So this's gonna be a thing now, huh? Lachlan's bright idea spread, and it spread in all the right ways. The only bad thing (other than the fact that I'm only gonna be eating dry stuffing and gloopy cranberries for dinner now) is Lachlan's little kink is hilarious and all kinds of fun to feed, but this… This isn't funny. This's something else entirely. And I can't stop watching.

I heard Mitch head downstairs like half an hour ago when he thought I was sleeping so he could wait for Lachy to come home, and I snuck in the hall closet to catch him because I knew he was gonna come down here and tickle the fridge's pickles. But I didn't think I'd walk in on him making sweet, sweet love to my fucking dinner. I mean, I knew he was really into this kinda thing with his ex-girlfriend because she somehow didn't know about his… his situation even though I spent the whole time she was here with ultra-mega-noise-cancelling headphones on to drown the two of them out. Seeing him do it's a whole other thing. Part of me wants to jump outta the closet and scare the holy living shit out of him for stealing the rest of my sad excuse for a Thanksgiving dinner, but that's only like one percent of my brain right now. The other ninety-nine percent doesn't wanna go anywhere.

Dammit, Mitch. I expected to come down here and bust you red-handed mutilating my poor, limp turkey. I didn't think I'd end up in the hall closet watching you pole dance against the fridge and tongue the poor bird. This isn't what most people mean when they say they eat turkey at Thanksgiving.

I can't ignore the painful pressure in my suddenly too-tight jeans and I give in to the burning and undo the zipper. It's not the first time he's made me do something like this. This's just the first time it happened over dinner. Usually it's behind closed doors or on the couch during the five-day-long winter when it's fifty degrees outside and I can break out the blankets and not look completely nutso. Just another reason to hate Floor-fuck-land. Here, though… He can't look up and catch me slamming the Spam over here. I can just sit back and enjoy the show.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if this turned into a thing.

Might as well get something out of it, now that I don't have anything good to eat.

* * *

 **Mitch:**

It doesn't take long before the gravy is gone and the once smooth surface of the meat is jagged and rough from the top layer being ripped away. I back a step away from the side of the countertop and the small, sharp drawer handle I had been leaning forward against, and I feel the stinging cold of the wet spot in the front of my underwear against the sensitive flesh. Now, even if someone walks in on me legitimately eating, they won't know what actually happened here tonight. I peel the remains of the turkey breast apart and snack on it while I dig around in the fridge for a second course to this meal. I pull out the half-eaten chocolate cream pie and turn to grab a knife to cut a slice when I see him standing there, his arms crossed and his face scrunched in a comical scowl. He magically appeared when my back was turned, as silent as ever.

"Goddammit, Mitch. Did you really hafta do this? And with the turkey! You had to do it _with the turkey_? What the fuck are we gonna eat, Mitch?" Jerome rants under his breath, trying to keep the noise down to avoid disturbing Lachlan.

"What are you talking about, dood? There's plenty left to eat." I self-consciously wipe the back of my hand across my face, making sure that I don't have gravy everywhere. He doesn't look remotely convinced.

"I saw what you did to my turkey, Mitchell." I try to keep my face as blank and unimpressed as possible, but things just got really nasty. How much did he see? "Don't you give me that eyebrow. You can say whatever you wanna say but we both know what happened in here." I see him glance down at the spot of lost gravy on my t-shirt, and I know that if I wasn't standing behind the bar, his eyes would be travelling lower than that.

"And what exactly did you see, Jerome?"

"Well, it looked like you were slurping its udders pretty good. Pretty impressive for a Monday night."

"Yeah, I might've been having a little late night fun after the week from hell, but what were you doing watching me? Were you choking next year's turkey?" He has the decency to look uncomfortable, but he doesn't deny it. Is this why he's so interested in Lachlan's Chipotle kink? Does he get off to that, too, or does he just have a thing for me? Fuck. I thought we settled this in high school.

"Touché. Don't touch my cheddar taters. Last good thing left." At least he changed the subject. He never does that.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't grind it in the carpet or you'll-" Before I know it, the rest of the cream pie filling is clinging to my face and he's peeling the tin off to smear it through my hair. He leaves the empty foil tin perched on top of my head and pats it a few times before he wipes the whipped cream from his hand on the front of my shirt.

"Hey, Mitch. _Sssssssllllluuuuuurrrrrppppp_."

"Fuck you, dood."


	29. Vitas (Poofless)

**The song featured in this chapter is "7th Element" by Vitas, if you want to follow along on YouTube. This story is entirely Rob's fault.**

* * *

"Ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha! Bloohahaha!" I can't see him but I can hear him doing it again in the front room. That freaking song. I hate that freaking song. Whoever sent him that freaking Vitas song is gonna freaking die a horrible freaking fiery death. I caught him naked watching it in bed at like eight o'clock this morning, and now it's six o'clock at night and he's still going. It goes silent again for like thirty seconds, then… "Ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha! Bloohahaha!"

"Rob! Stop!"

"No!" he screeches with his high-pitched whiny voice and I know he's doing that stupid dance on the other side of the condo. If he breaks my chair, he's gonna go out in the rain and buy me a new one. Freaking Rob and his stupid, crappy tongue song. He shuts up for like five minutes straight and I think he's finally over it when I hear it louder than before. "Ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha! Bloohahaha!" That's it. I'm done.

I shove my rolly chair back and leave the editing go. I hafta end this. _Now_. I sneak down the hallway and creep up behind him, watching him wiggle back and forth like a big dumb kid in his spinny chair. He's waiting for a hoard of Blazes to spawn in his base on Cosmic and he's doing the motorbike revving hands like a total spaz. I walk up and smack the left headphone off his head and he recoils and looks up at me with his big ol' brown puppy eyes and a crooked frown like I just broke his bloohahaha.

"Freakin' stop it, dude. You're worse than Lachlan when he hums his theme song on the plane." He blinks at me and adjusts his headphones and starts killing Blazes. I go over and start making a mocha cappuccino with peppermint syrup for myself, but I screw it up halfway through and now there's no foam on top. Great. I think about asking him if he wants it so I can try again when I catch him bobbing his head back and forth to that creepy frickin' song again. Never mind. You get nothing, you jobless pleb. I grab my coffee and head down the hallway to my office and shut the door so I can record some Micro Battles without his insane shrieking in the background.

It's so peaceful in here. Just the sound of my voice and the whirring of the fan in my computer and the sound of stabbing people's hit boxes through the headphones. The nightmare of Rob's bouncing and squealing and tongue-flicking thankfully blocked out of my mind. I spend an hour recording and drinking my flat but sugary coffee, all in peace. My webcam is turned off so I don't notice him tiptoe in behind me like a Creeper. I jump when I feel his breath on the side of my neck and I accidentally backhand him across the side of his face. Not like it does any good.

"Chug 'em, chug 'em, chug 'em, chug 'em, bedroom. Whooooaoaoaoa! Chug 'em, chug 'em, chug 'em, chug 'em, beeeeed-room."

"Dad gommit, Robert! Are you ever gonna stop?"

"Open shawl don't and you fish new. Ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha, ooh ha-ha! Bloooohahaha!" He smirks at me and runs out of my office, like he can hide from me in my own condo. I almost run past him hiding in the corner by the door in the bedroom, pretending to be a wall again. Is he drunk? What the heck is wrong with him that he keeps doing this over and over and over and over again?

"No. You get back here, Rob. You're gonna stop it or-" He steps forward and grabs me and drags me over to the bed and throws me down. I glare up at him and his dumb prickly face and he makes a toothy grin with pursed lips. This man and his creeper faces. "Whaddaya want from me?"

"You know what I want." We stare at each other for a few seconds before he ducks down and presses our lips together in a sloppy kiss. Leave him to be the most adorable creep in the universe.

"Are you done now?"

"Are you?"

"Yeah. I'm fudging done with you today." He makes a fake crying face and plops down on his butt and I shove him off the bed and walk back to my office. Good thing I didn't make him any coffee or he'd be even more wound up than he already is. He needs to get his pills adjusted, the dumb derp. I sit down and start editing the footage from the rounds of Micro Battles and I hear him creep up behind me again. "What now?"

"I'm sorry, Preston." I look over at him and I don't trust the sneaky look on his face. He thinks just 'cause he smiles that I'll believe him. I'm not that gullible, dude. I just look at him and he leans in and puts a line of scratchy kisses from my forehead down my noise and ends on my lips. I bite him for being annoying all day and he makes a little yelp and pushes me back in my chair and pulls my headphones off and puts them on the desk. He tries to slide his tongue in my mouth and I bite him harder. He gives in and lets me take over his mouth. I grab his head and pull him closer so he's bent awkwardly in half and balanced half on my lap, half off. We battle it out for a few minutes, thrusting our tongues against each other and clawing at each other's faces and gently nipping at lips and tongues and clicking our teeth together. We should do this somewhere else… with more room… and less weird angles…

"Bloohahaha!" I shove him away in the chest and he slams into the printer and almost knocks it off the table.

"Fudging stop it, Robert!" He laughs and leans forward with his hands on his knees and his butt jutted out towards the door. I glare at him while I wipe the line of warm drool off the side of my face from his stupid tongue flicking. He watches me and keeps giggling while he dries the tears out of his eyes. I huff and turn back to my computer monitors to finish my editing so I can upload it while we run out and get dinner. Unlike him, I have a job. "Freakin' cactus."

"Love you, too, babe."

"Fudge you."

"Anytime, Princess."


	30. Talking Zombies (Four-quel to Endstone)

**The final part of the "Endstone" series. This chapter is very loosely based on the parody "Talking Zombies" released by Vikkstar123.**

* * *

 **Jerome:**

I make sure it's tucked securely in the belt loop in the back of my jeans and hidden under my shirt, and I hold the greasy paper bag full of tacos up so they can see it. Then I knock on the door of their hotel room. I'm only gonna get one shot at this. If no one else's gonna do it, I'll do it myself. So what if that makes me a monster? At least I'll be a monster among zombies. At least I'll know I did the right thing when they strap me in the electric chair and turn out the lights.

"Jerome, what are you doing here?" Rob asks quietly through the door with a hint of annoyance. Preston's still snivelling somewhere in the background and I hear him say something in his whiny crying voice and I grit my teeth and try not to make a face. I just need to get him to open the door.

"I thought you guys'd want some food. Can't a guy be nice to his friends?" Saying the f-word is like slapping myself in the face with Mitch's cold, dead, broken hand. But I'll say anything they want me to as long as it gets me in there with them.

"I think we're good for now. Thanks, Jerome." Rob-a-Dob-Flob's gotta be stubborn as always.

"But I went all the way down to that shopping center from hell to get these! And you're not even gonna eat 'em?!" I say it loud enough that I know Pressy'll hear me. Between his gullibility and Rob's bleeding heart, this'll be a piece of cake. Come on, guys. Just open the door. Just a crack.

"Hey, man. I don't think that's a good idea, not after-"

"Are you fucking kidding me, Woof? I go outta my way to try to make it up to you guys and you-"

"I know you just want to-"

"Just let him in, Rob," Preston croaks from somewhere in the background, his voice even more annoying than it usually is. I wanna grab the back of his head and bash his face against the wall until he stops moving. That's what he did to Mitch. He'd deserve it, the stupid bastard.

"Preston, you know this isn't going to be pretty." There's a pause and I hear Rob sigh and slowly unlock the deadbolt on the door. The chain's still in place and he opens the door and looks out at me with those sad, bruised puppy dog eyes of his that used to make me feel sorry for him. He brought this shit down on his own head by siding with Preston. If he knows what's good for him, he'll stay out of my way.

"Hey, Woof."

"Please don't get it started again. We just want things to go back to normal so we can all go to Mitch's funeral in peace. Okay?" I nod and hold the bag out with both hands like a peace offering, like what he just said doesn't matter. These two wouldn't've been invited to Mitch's funeral to start with. But he can think that, if it makes him feel better. He looks me up and down for a second before he shuts the door and unchains the lock. I'm in.

"Thanks." It comes out more stiffly than I'd wanted it to, but it doesn't matter now. I'm invincible. I slowly walk in with the bag of Taco Hell and get a good look at the Pity Parlor. Preston's sprawled out in the middle of the bed under the covers with a mountain of used, bloody tissues on the table next to him and a stupid fire beanie stretched over his head. Probably to cover up the handful of hair missing from the top of his scalp. I just wish I coulda grabbed more. I hear the door shut quickly behind me and turn to see Rob pressing a bright blue ice pack to his equally-blue and swollen nose. His eyes are trained on me as he walks past, watching me warily as I toss the bag of lukewarm crap food at Preston. He just looks down at it and back up at me with his red and purple splotchy face. I did that. Just wish I'd had more time alone with him to paint a whole picture. I wonder what his fans'd think if they saw him like this, after he got mauled by a Bacca. Hell, I did a number on all of 'em, Lachlan included. He blinks up at me and rubs his eyes with his fists.

"I don't even know where to start. I can't think of a way to tell you how sorry I am. I know I should be in j-"

"Save it. Mitch wouldn't wanna hear you apologizin'. That's not what he woulda wanted." There's a long pause and I hear Rob sniff his itchy ass nose behind me. I hope it hurts.

"Then what should I do?" Preston asks innocently enough. There's no way he knew Mitch anywhere near as well as he thought he did if he needs _me_ to answer that question.

"Mitch woulda wanted blood." Preston's eyes go wide and he just looks up at me as I take a step forward and reach behind me for the trusty carving knife I bought at Wally World on the way here. Too bad it isn't a golden knife. It's his lucky day, either way.

"Hey, hey! Let's try to settle this- Holy shit." Rob drops his stupid ice pack and looks around him for a weapon. He grabs the table lamp but I'm already on top of Preston by the time he swings it at me. I hear it crash and break but I don't feel it. I don't know if he missed or if I'm just so far in the zone that nothing but hearing Pressy scream matters anymore. He puts up a pretty good fight for being such a wussy. With a flash of pain, something hard and bony hits me in the side of the head and I hear Woof grunt before he grabs me around the neck with one hand and tries to wrestle the knife away from me with the other. I stare down at Preston's swollen, lop-sided face as the gap grows between us. Somehow, he's pulling me away from his precious little pleblet.

"Rob, don't! You're just gonna hurt yourself. Let me-"

"No! Call the cops! We need to get him out of here before he kills someone!" That's the last straw. I dive back towards the bed but Preston makes a run for it and scrambles over the mattress and off the other side by the window. I stumble under Rob's weight and we both fall forward on the bed. He almost manages to impale me on the knife, but I'm not that stupid. I push up on my knee and flip us over so I'm laying back on top of him. After a good smack to the face with the back of my head and a swift elbow to the ribs, his arms are nowhere to be seen. I'm free.

"How's it feel to get a taste of your own medicine, Woof? You learn that elbow trick from hockey or volleyball?" He glares up at me with tears in his eyes and blood gushing out of his nose, like I'm supposed to feel bad for him.

"Fuck you, man."

"Nah. That's Nooch's job. But you'd know all about that, huh?" He tries to kick me in the stomach and roll away, but I lunge forward and shove the blade of the knife in the middle of his chest. I watch his eyes widen in terror as he looks down at my blood-soaked hands. He tries to grab me to throw me off of himself and I feel Preston hitting me with something hard from behind but none o' that matters now. I snatch the knife out of his chest and stab him again a few inches to the left. And again, and again, and again, and again. His punches and scratches get weaker and he stops fighting. His eyes get glassy and the only expression on his face is blood. That's all that's left: blood. Mitch woulda been proud.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Preston yells as he grabs the chair I'd been pretending to sit in before I went after him. "H-how could you kill him?! How could you kill your friend?!"

"How's it feel, P? How's it feel to lose the only person you love in this fucking ruthless world?" He looks at me, blank as a sheet of paper. Damn, his face would make a nice canvas. "Where's your God now, Preston?" I grin and he screws his face up in an animal-like snarl and hurls the chair at me.

Then the world goes black.

* * *

 **Preston:**

I drop the jagged chair leg and look down at what I did. There's nothing left above the neck but a puddle of blood full of bits of bone. It doesn't look like him anymore. It doesn't look like anything at all. His head was like a piñata – it just exploded after a couple good hits. I couldn't stop it after I got going. It's like something else took over my body and… it murdered Jerome.

I murdered Jerome.

I murdered two people today.

 _Me_.

It takes a couple seconds for that to sink in. I'm a serial killer. I accidentally killed Mitch, then I purposefully killed Jerome. And Rob got the crap beat out of him twice because of me. He was right all along.

"Rob?" I stand up from the pulpy, mushy, bloody mess on the carpet and slowly walk over to the bed, scared of what I'll see. He's staring blankly at a spot on the plain white wall and he doesn't move when I say his name. I walk over to him and put my hand on his chest to feel if he's breathing, but he doesn't move. I killed Rob, too. I've killed three people today.

I can feel the lump rising in my throat again and my eyes start to sting like I'm swimming in the pool downstairs. Even chlorine couldn't clean up this mess. It hurts so bad. Everything hurts. My eyes, my head, my arms, my heart… The pain's just too much. And now there's no one to help me through it. I carefully grab the hand laying limply on the scratchy sheets and lace our fingers together. The wet blood on our hands runs together, and it hurts even more when I find out that his's still warm.

If I hadn't crushed Jerome's skull in, could I've saved both of them? This's all my fault. If I hadn't given in to this monster, they might still be alive. Now they're just empty bodies. I'm a cold-blooded murderer.

I sit in the dimly lit room and wait until his hand is cold as stone before I give it one last squeeze and lay it back down on the bed, knowing there's only one thing left to do. I can't hurt anyone else. I pick through the shards of shattered porcelain from the lamp he threw until I find the cord. It's too short for me to use as a rope but if there's one thing I learned from the Pack, it's that there's always more than one way to destroy things. And that's all I seem to be able to do anymore.

The tiny, stained tub fills up quickly and I wipe the end of the cold tears away so I can see what I'm doing. This's really the end. It only takes about a minute to fill the tub up two inches. By that time, I've tossed my phone up on the counter and plugged the lamp cord into the wall by the sink. The broken light bulb at the other end keeps crackling as the electricity tries to light it up. I can't help but smile at the thought of Rob making a stupid joke about me turning into a real-life lava mob. He'd hate me for doing this but I hate myself more. I just hope he'll forgive me.

I climb into the tub and sit down in the freezing cold water. I get one last glimpse of my bloody, battered, bruised face in the mirror and I shiver as the water soaks into my jeans and my layered shirts. I reach up on the counter and grab the burning hot bulb fixture from the ugly lamp and my life literally flashes before my eyes as it hits the water. I can feel my body shaking out of control and the overhead lights flicker and pop as the wiring in the walls gets fried. Something in the wall explodes with a loud _bang_ before the lights go out completely. The last thing I hear is Rob laughing at something while a door slams outside in the hallway. I hear footsteps running, but they're running away from me. Did I really hear anything? Or was it just my brain's last try to make sense of the electricity? I don't know what's real anymore and I give up trying to figure it out.

I killed four people today.

I'm so sorry, God.


	31. Noochonomics: An Introductory Course

I see them eying my milk. My chocolate-iest of all chocolate milks. I had to order it from Winder Farms to even get it down here in the States during the trip and these fuckers all want to take a sip. I see them check around to see if I'm watching before they get a glass and steal a bit. But a bit and a bit isn't a bit. It adds up. You see, boys… That's not how this works. That's not how _any_ of this works. And being the bona fide gentleman I am, I'm going to teach you classless udder lickers how the world really works.

You can eat lick someone's food when they leave the room and you can steal from someone's wallet while they sleep, but you don't kick a man in the balls and you don't drink his chocolate milk. Even Big Foot knows this and let's be clear – he isn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

Do you know what you do when human decency and common sense fail? You bring out the negative reinforcement. We're going to go full Skinner on this one, and I'm sure somewhere out there, six feet under, even Sigmund Freud and Michel Foucault would be proud. I'll make them face their milky Oedipus Complexes while they're serving their time in the porcelain prison. This is a whole new version of the panopticon. It's a shame Merome only has three toilets in their house for six victims, maybe seven if Ryan shows up.

I pull the car back into Mitch's garage and breathe in a sigh of contentment while I listen to the gears of the garage door opener creak and grind up above. I can already smell the sweet, sugary scent of revenge and I'm not even in the kitchen yet. Everyone's outside chillin' about on the back porch or in the pool, being their usual clueless, clowny selves. I watch for a minute to see if anyone is going to run inside to see what I brought back for them, but no one feels like being a defenseless baby bird today. What a shame. Could have saved them all quite a bit of pain.

I dig the empty cardboard carton of my silky sweet chocolate milk out of the trash can, glad to see that no one has taken it upon themselves to actually compact the trash in the trash compactor. And Mom said lazy never paid off! I don't bother rinsing it out – a little food poisoning is the least of their worries this time around. I grab the half gallon of cheap Walmart brand chocolate milk I just bought and pour enough of it in the cardboard carton to fill it about a third of the way. Next, I grab the family size bottle of Miralax Maximum Strength Laxative and pour it in, the bitter scent of chocolate-flavored milk of magnesia curling the hairs in my nose. Finally, I go to the fridge and dig around until I find the bottle of chocolate syrup I saw this morning and I squeeze enough of it in the bottle to hide the taste of the Chemical X, as Mitch would call it. Jerome thought the Death Cups were bad; wait until he downs a glass of this.

I screw the little yellow lid back on the carton and give it a good ol' shake-aroonie before I put it back in the infamous fridge. I hide the bottle of syrup in the nether region of the bottom drawer where no one else would dare to venture, just in case I need it later, and I toss the empty laxative bottle in the compactor. With the flick of a switch, the evidence is gone, crushed beyond both visibility and recognition. I do a second look over the kitchen, making sure I didn't miss anything. Not a drop. I grab the rest of the fresh half gallon of untainted chocolate milk and head out to the back porch, waving it past Lachlan's and Preston's heads as I walk by them. Just to tempt them.

"What's up, boyos?" Jerome pulls his sunglasses up just enough that he can peer under them at me, and I raise my bottle of sweet success up to toast him before I take a good swig of it. By this time, even Vik has put his phone down and Rob and Mitch have paused their game of ping pong to watch.

"Goddammit, Nooch. Not again."

"Cheers, mate." All I can do is smile.


	32. Headlights (An Ode to Chipotlan)

The clock on the wall right outside the break room counts down the minutes until it's time to go home. Only half an hour left until closing and every minute that passes makes the hope in my chest swell just a little bit more. Tonight might be a quiet night. Maybe the siege is over. Maybe he finally went back home. Andrew snaps a plastic container of pico de gallo shut in the walk-in freezer and moves on to counting the packages of tortillas. The hum of the air conditioning and the ticking of the clock are the only sounds in the building after a hectic evening of serving soccer moms and their rowdy kids and the occasional pot head who just happened to wander by. Once you've worked night shift, you remember these things for the rest of your life, especially the customers you know by name. It's 11:33 – only twenty-seven minutes left to go before I can go home and put my feet up and dream of other things.

At 11:41, my heart sinks like a chunk of lead in the middle of the sea. Our peaceful night is gone. It's amazing how quickly things like this can burn you out and make you wonder if it's really worth getting out of bed tomorrow afternoon. I should just take out the student loans and pay my dues some day in the incomprehensibly distant future. We see that dark silver car pull up to the spot in front of the door at twice the speed it has any business going. We know he's back, with his messy blonde up-do and his thick Steve Irwin accent and his sky blue eyes. Pretty soon he'll be applying for citizenship so he can live down the street from our restaurant. He'd live above it, if he could. He's got those dark blue swim trunks on like he thinks they hide something. They don't hide anything.

He isn't even inside the restaurant yet and I can already see his headlights from here. Not the ones on his car, either. The ones that poke out of his t-shirt that I'll have to try not to stare at when he comes to the counter to order his chicken burrito with black beans, brown rice, sour cream, cheese, medium salsa, and guacamole on a flour tortilla with a side of chips and two containers of guacamole. He looks around nervously and speed walks up to the front door and nods toward me in silent, solemn recognition as he lets the glass door fall shut behind him. Kirstie is nowhere to be seen and Andrew would rather count the beans in the industrial-sized cans in the back room than serve him. It looks like this is getting to be routine.

His friends aren't with him tonight. Maybe Andrew was right – maybe he works at that adult film place down on Barron Street. His last name is "Power" and he looks like a porn star. And nobody gets this excited about a burrito and chips. He might be trying to psyche himself up for his next job. He doesn't act like this when he comes here with his friends in the daytime. I wonder if they all work together at the studio. That could explain the cameras and the awkward laughter and the way the other two always hang all over each other. Lucky for him, he doesn't seem to mind being the third wheel.

I put the tortilla on the mini grill to warm it up and he stands over by the register with his iPhone out, scrolling through Twitter like he thinks he's somebody. Maybe he _is_ somebody. He's leaning forward against the counter and it leaves next to nothing to the imagination. He already has a burrito in his pocket and he's not afraid to show it. He's just the right height where his bulge drags across the counter when he walks and Kirstie can't help but stare from the kitchen whenever he comes in. She doesn't serve him anymore. She goes on break every time she sees his headlights flash through the front window. Andrew caught him digging for gold in front of the beans a few months ago, and now he pulls his "I'm the shift manager and you'll do what I tell you" card whenever I even think of telling him I don't want to do this anymore. I'm trapped here with him almost every night I work, and it's not worth a dollar above minimum wage without vacation time or benefits to put up with this shit. I can't unsee it. Yu Ling from the other shift always gets a good laugh out of it and she swears she's going to get a picture of him counter surfing someday and post it on Facebook. The rest of us... We're just glad we haven't had to wipe up any "sour cream" yet. That's enough for us.

I suppose I should be grateful he doesn't eat here, in case we were wrong about him being a bottom model. It seems like a longshot that he'd be anything else, with his looks and his suspicious behavior. I just can't think of another reason for someone to act like this in a public restaurant five, six, seven, eight times a week. I hurriedly finish his order and wrap it in a shiny silver wrapper and slide the container of chips and the two bowls of guacamole into a paper bag that seems to make three times as much noise as it should. I don't know how long he's been watching me now, but I can see his eyes locked in my direction as I put the warm burrito on top and pass the bag over the counter to him.

He already has his bottomless prepaid card out to swipe through the card reader – I'm beyond grateful that I don't have to touch it. His manager must pay him partially in Chipotle gift cards, either to launder the money or because they get them for a bulk discount. He slides his famous confetti gift card back in his wallet and pulls out a couple of one dollar bills and tosses them in the tip jar. I don't want to know where he gets all of those, and I'm not about to pull one out to play Sherlock Holmes to find out. Maybe Mr. Shift Manager can figure it out someday when he counts them up. I put on the widest, fakest smile I can and he nods and silently walks away, his sleepy blue eyes briefly locking with mine in… is that understanding? Dear god. What does he see in me?

I think it's time to go home.


	33. Repel Wore Off (Posh Life 3)

**The final part of the "Posh Life" series set in the new Crazy Craft/Flower Mob universe. This chapter was written while listening to "Living in the Sunlight" by Tiny Tim.**

* * *

 **Rob:**

"Eeee! Eeee-eeeee! _Hiss! Hisssssss!_ EEEEE! EEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE-" The screeching continues for a few more seconds, muffled inside my mouth, before a resounding _crunch_ restores silence to the meadow. A small wave of relief passes through the flowers spilling out over the edge of the hilly biome as the terrified shrieking stops and the splash of hot red blood flows down the back of my throat. I pull back on my main stem and settle back into the damp dirt patch at the top of my base, my leaves giving a little shiver as the bright sunlight begins to warm them up again. Photosynthesizing is amazing, yeah, but a little meat is nice every once in a while, and Zubats are an easy, cheap, reliable source of food. What other creature is stupid enough to fly directly past a predator that is a hundred times their size? At this point, I'm convinced that the only thing keeping them from extinction on this server is Lachlan's irrational attachment to the horrid things. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

I swallow the juicy, bloody morsel and wince as I feel the creature's scratchy, wiry fur tickle the back of my throat. It tastes greasy in an unclean kind of way. Not only that, but there's this terrible aftertaste that I have never had before. Whatever this Zubat was eating before I ate it, it had no right eating it. Fresh meat isn't supposed to taste sour and bitter like this. I need something else to get rid of the taste.

I slowly pull my roots out of the rich dirt and drape them over the side of the roof, using them to carefully climb down off of the second storey of my base. A polite silence falls over the flowers in the field as I pass, straining all of my eyes to find something that doesn't reflect the meadow's vibrant colors back at me. Finally, I see it at the base of the hill, munching away on the daisies growing there and sending shrill screams through the warm suntime air. The cow doesn't have a chance to run by the time it sees me, and I send a thick, sharp root through the side of its body, the diamond-hard root cap snapping through its ribs like a TNT blast in a glass house. Its heavy body slumps down into the grasp of my network of roots and the remaining flowers cheer as a spray of thick, red blood showers down on their brightly colored petals. My subjects appreciate my generosity as much as my victim appreciates my compassion. Unlike others in my phylum, I don't force my meals to suffer before I consume them, although the adrenaline rush adds a nice flavor to the meat.

It takes several minutes to consume the entire cow, and I snag an ocelot on the way back to my base, hoping its tangy meat will help to kill the remainder of the putrid aftertaste from the Zubat. The wolves are smart enough to keep their distance while they watch me devour the bulk of the cow, but the ocelots just can't seem to contain their enthusiasm; this happens every time, so leaving scraps creates a steady source of food. My stomach is about halfway full of heavy meat and it's difficult to walk back to my base. My xylem is full of the syrupy, fatty combination of stomach acid and warm meat. I didn't mean to eat so much, but the bitterness of the rancid Zubat was just too much. I churn up the dirt in the middle of the clearing and sink my roots down into the soil before stretching my stem up toward the glowing sun. This is going to take forever to digest.

* * *

 **Preston:**

Why's no one freaking home today? The casino doesn't even open for another three days but no one's home and no one's at Spawn. There's no one to explore with or do PVP with or trick into doing parkour and it's gettin' kinda lonely, all these empty rooms, just watching the hours tick by… The best way to turn three days into an eternity is to sit around and watch the sun move. Fudge this. I'm gonna go make Rob entertain me. The pleb can have a job for a day.

You know the worst part of being friends with a flower mob? Walking to his house through the fields of baby flowers and not being able to set 'em on fire. Is that bad? It sounds bad but it's so much freaking fun. I wonder what his face'd look like if he walked over the top of the hill and saw that half of it was grey and ashy. I bet he'd scream like Lachlan did when that Creeper killed DJ Skellex. Or like when Mitch 'accidentally' murdered Nati and half of Vik's villager farm at the same time. Or like when Jerome broke Betty on that zombie pigman's head. Or like when I jumpscare Choco every time I go to his base. These guys are flippin' hilarious. They're nothing like the buzzkills back home. But as much fun as it sounds like it'd be, I don't want the Flower King to be mad at me for another autosave cycle. I need him to make my cactus farm grow 'cause they won't listen to _me_.

I round the top of the hill and I can already tell something's wrong when I see him chillin' a-boot in the early suntime sun. He never lets anyone see him like this. Is it 'cause he doesn't want Nooch to try to prune his leaves again, or does he really wish he was human? I thought he was joking when he said that but if he always looks so sad and limp and wilted when he's alone, maybe he really meant it. His leaves are all saggy and even his giant red flower-head-thing doesn't look as bright and shiny as it did when he ate Lachlan that time. That's the most pitiful flower I think I've ever seen. I bet one spark would set his whole body on fire.

"Hey, Rob-a-Dob-Flob. You finally get a job?" I yell at him across the field as I brush my way through the flowers and long grass and try not to set anything on fire. There's no answer but I see his stem extend and straighten out so all of his glowy little fish-looking eyes can look at me. And I thought the mobs in the Nether were freakin' weird. At least they try to kill you instead of trying to stare into the depths of your soul. Dangit, Rob. "Whatcha doin' out here all on your lonesome? Did Nooch try to take you to the chop-shop again?" The giant flower still doesn't answer. He just straightens up and gets creepily still. What's this big, dirty derp doing? I take a couple steps closer and I can see his shiny little reflective eyes all staring at me like he's never seen anything like me before. I open my mouth to make fun of him for staring at me again when the flower-mouth lunges forward and snaps at me.

"RANTGSH!" I barely have a chance to react and he gets a huge mouthful of grass and dirt and little red flowers. What's gotten into him?! Why's he so mad at me?

"Rob!" His leaves shake and I see him draw his stem back and get ready to strike again. And I thought ocelots were fast. Freakin' flower mob and his stupid grudges. I didn't even burn down his dumb meadow and he's still trying to kill me and eat me. Wait, if he eats me… "Rob, listen to me. I don't know why you're actin' all freaky like this, but if you eat me you're gonna burn to death. Do you want that to happen? Do you wanna burn to death?"

"SNARGSH!" He darts forward again and gets so close that he sprays me with some kinda slime or drool or something from his big, snapping mouth. The clear, foamy liquid hisses as it lands on my skin and it takes me a second to recover from the stinging. Did his data get corrupted? He's never mad like this and it's like he doesn't remember who I am or what lava does. I mean, sometimes he's not the smartest entity but this's just plain weird.

"Bad Robert! You can't-" He swings one of his huge roots at me and smacks me across the face, then he roars in pain as the little stringy mini-roots start smoking. "See?! I tried to tell you! Keep your roots and your branches and your flowers and all your other appendages to yourself!" But that just makes him angrier. He pushes himself forward and starts running at me, like actually running. There's a giant thorny rose with eight rows of teeth running at me and throwing dirt everywhere. Every swing of the roots causes more and more sticky, sugary slime to drip out of his gaping mouth and splash on the meadow. I didn't wanna hafta do this, but it'd be worse for both of us if I let him eat me. Who knew flowers could be so demonic and evil? They always seemed so innocent. I think Dad would like him.

"GNARSH!"

I draw my sword and stab it up through the bottom of his flower-head as he draws his squishy jaw open to try to bite me in half. Silly derp. He's so bad at PVP. And this is his final form. I hope. There's a nasty _squish_ and he whines as the sharp diamond blade slices through his silky skin. I yank the sword out and my arm gets covered in sticky, clear green sap and a streak of red blood. I don't wanna know how his bodily fluids work. I'm not gonna question it. While he recovers and tries to open his broken mouth again, I swing the sword and it hacks a tenth of the way through his stem. Holy frick. What's this guy made out of that a diamond sword can't slice through him?! I draw the sword back and swing it again and again and again and again. I guess I can see why he hates axes so much. Must be easier to kill him that way.

"I'm sorry! But I wouldn't hafta keep hittin' you if you'd just die! Freakin' die already!" The flower mob is flailing wildly as chunks of broken stem and ripped leaves and shredded petals fly off of him and a stream of gooey sap sprays out of his severed stem. No wonder Nooch likes him so much – his blood tastes like lemony pixie sticks. Not that I ever wanna taste his fluids again.

Finally, his limp body topples over and thumps to the ground. The air smells like freshly mowed grass like over at Choco's commercial sheep farm and I don't wanna think about the horrors I've seen here today. At least I'm not bored anymore, I guess. I'm scarred for life, but I'm not bored. I look around and there's a huge gash in the middle of his precious meadow where his roots and his big dumb mouth carved out a ditch while he tried to eat me. Hundreds of little dead flowers are flung all over the field and there're big puddles of red and green and clear liquid pooling around his leaking, wilting corpse. It's kinda hard to look at a dead Rob and not feel bad for killing it. Or burning it. But something had to've caused him to go crazy like that and I can't let it get around to the rest of the server. Killing a virus is more important than saving a couple items and his half-dead meadow. He can regrow everything in a couple autosave cycles and his house's made of stone. It's time for some real fun now. And with that, I brush my hands around me in a circle to catch the long grass on fire, and I walk past the smoking flower mob to go sit on top of his base to watch the flames spread.

Should I feel bad for doing this? 'Cause I don't. Maybe that's why everyone thinks I'm evil.

He'll understand, right? He'll get why I did it.

He's gonna be so frickin' mad when he respawns.


	34. Classic Noochonomics

"Nice place you got here." Rob looks at me dubiously as I hold up the three gallons of chocolate milk and the fresh bottle of Kahlua alcomahols I bought just for this special occasion. Ungrateful bastard. He bows weakly and steps aside to let me into his brand, spanking new house. I could get used to this place. It's small enough to be cozy but big enough that I could sit in the same room as Mitch and not smell his rank fucking feet. "How much did you pay for it?"

"Just… You know, a leg, a couple of fingers, and ten liters of blood. It's not too bad."

"I'm not talking about Preston, dude." His eyebrows shoot up and he makes his not-impressed face and turns to shut the door behind me. I glance around at the perfectly arranged little living room and the pile of empty boxes stacked up by the door to the garage. It's too neat and clean in here. What can I fuck with today?

"The kitchen is this way, Mat. Don't get any bright ideas." I smile and follow him, watching in satisfaction as he checks behind himself three times to see if I'm still coming. He really doesn't trust me, does he? This guy's going to have a nervous breakdown by the time he's thirty if he doesn't chillax a little and smell the roses. For being the Flower King, he's really uptight. Although, that might be just how he likes it.

"Who? Me?" I ask as innocently as I can and he turns and rolls his eyes where I can see him. These guys always think the worst of me, like I drove all the way over here to trash his house. I just came to have a little fun with my good friends and throw Poofless – I mean, Rob – a house warming party. There was no reason for Preston to fly up here for two weeks to help him move in. Three or four days, maybe, but not two weeks. We all know it's just a matter of time before Preston gets a visa and moves his sweet little booty in here permanently with his best boyfriend, whether or not these two are willing to admit they ship it. Truth is not a democracy.

"Rob, did you get the…? Oh, for fudge sakes! What's this thing doin' here?" Preston plasters on his just-a-yoke face like he's steeling himself for the ensuing banter, but I can tell he doesn't want me here. He thinks I'll try to steal his subWoofer. It's not my fault he doesn't know how to use the knobs to turn the volume up.

"This _thing_ brought you two lovebirds a sweet combo gift, but because you're a noob, now there's more for me. You can drink that shitty cheap rum he stockpiles like a rodent." I point up at the huge conga line of half-empty bottles lining the top of the cabinets that will probably still be there when Preston dies of a red-meat-and-cheese-grease-induced heart attack.

"It isn't shitty," Rob protests as he goes over to the fridge to look for something. Nice tight blue capris there, dude. That's quite a view from over here. Preston sees me looking and he doesn't look amused.

"S-uuuuure. Have you ever seen me drink it?"

"No."

"So it's shitty." He tilts his head down and looks up at me with his lips pursed together before he starts digging around in the bottom drawer again.

"Just because you won't drink it doesn't make it shitty. That just means you're a picky ass like Jerome." He finally pulls out a black plastic tray with bright red hamburger patties in it and he starts grabbing little produce bags out of the crisper. Leave it to the Flower King to smear salad and other healthy shit all over a hamburger. What does he think I am, a bunny? It looks like the aftermath of my mom's dog attacking Big Foot's cage, with lettuce and onions and tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers next to ground up, unidentifiable meat. Who the fuck puts cucumbers on hamburgers besides Mitch the health nut? These two can eat a solid Death Cup if they want, but I'm just here for the meat and cheese, like in every other facet of my life.

"I'll cook if you chop all that crap up," Preston volunteers, like him cooking chunks of meat makes him manly. He might as well drop the act and stop making a fool of himself. If he was any more of a try-hard in front of Rob, he'd be too stiff to sit down. But this gives me the perfect opportunity to pull off my plan.

"I'll get the drinks." They both study me for a second to see if I'm being serious before Rob nods uncertainly. I hold the gallons of milk up and twirl them next to my face so he'll stop trying to stare into my soul.

"The cups are in the cabinet behind you. I'm watching you, Mat." I shrug and take the jug of chocolate milk and the bottle of Kahlua into the dining room and set them down on the table. This is going to be fun. He always complains about me using all of his wine glasses way back when he moved into his last apartment. Let's see him gripe about this. I start looking through the cupboards and carefully grab three glass cups and head into the dining room where his eyes can't follow me anymore. We'll see you watch me, Rob. No one can 'watch' me, especially when they're rubbing buns with their pseudo-boyfriend in the kitchen.

* * *

"Nooch, what the fuck is this?" Rob walks through the doorway with two plates of green shit in his hands and he just stops and stares at the table in front of him. It's like he can't believe his eyes.

"I told you I would get the drinks. So I got the drinks. You get first pick because it's your party." His eyes blankly scan the table and take in the collection of odds and ends full of the delightful mixture of chocolate milk and slightly bitter alcohol. He stares at the glass candle holders and the mini menorah and the assortment of spoons holding only a few drops each, and the skillets and the coffee pot and the wok that hold an impressive amount of creamy, sugary goodness. Preston nudges him out of the way with a plate of plain burger patties in one hand and a bag of buns in the other, and he makes it halfway to the table before he looks up to see what Rob was staring at. I fill up the ladle in my hand with milk from the wok and take it over to Preston like it's a peace offering. He looks at me like he's never seen anything like me before, then he leans over and starts lapping at the milk like a cat. Maybe this guy isn't so bad after all.

"Mat… Why would you…? What the fuck is this supposed to _be_?" Heh. His voice is like two octaves higher. Good surprise, huh? It's like Alice in Wonderland, white rabbit and all.

"It's a work of art, Robert," Preston adds as he sets the plate of hamburgers down next to the plugged-in crock pot full of milky hot chocolate and pulls the chair out to sit down. I set the slobbery ladle down on the end of the table next to the full-size plates and saucers and beckon for Rob to sit across from him between the blender and the teaspoons so they won't play handsie during dinner. He just stares at me with his mouth pressed into a long, straight line and a light red flush coloring his forehead and ears. He's so impressed he doesn't know what to say. It isn't every day you get to see Rob lose his temper. I sit at the uncluttered head of the table and raise the single wine glass toward him in a toast while Preston examines the two carefully placed drops of milk on each of the butter knives and starts taking pictures for Instagram. I take a sip from my glass and Rob finally sighs and comes to sit down next to me.

"God damn it."

"Classic Noochonomics, boys. This is why you go to college."


	35. Candyman (Midgerome)

**Warning: If you are a smut virgin or if you try to avoid sexually explicit content, please skip this chapter. This one-shot was written while listening to "Candyman" by Christina Aguilera, if you want another layer of crack.**

 **This story is set in the alternate universe of "Her" – a very graphic, very queer Merome fic posted only on my WattPad account under the same username. I wasn't sure if it would fit under the rating system here.**

* * *

"Hey, Mitch."

"Yeah?" So he's in his office trying to be productive again. We'll fix that, friendarino.

"You hungry?"

"Nah, dood. I'll grab dinner after… I finish this." Who's he kidding? He's always hungry. The guy's like a fucking garbage disposal, the way he noms his way through the fridge like the Roomba. Truth is, half of Alex's job is keeping up with the dishes Mitch piles up in the sink like a fucking hoarder. I'm sick of being his maid. It's not splitting the work if ninety-percent of it isn't yours. You'd think we were running a car wash in here with all the dish soap we use. No, he's hungry – he just doesn't know it yet.

I pull open the door to the fridge and look around for something that'll go good with my new get-up. It takes a couple seconds for my eyes to find something worthwhile and I catch myself rearranging my junk for the hundred thousandth time. There's no good way to wear this damn thing, is there? I shoulda bought a large instead of a medium but when you're trying to find a sexy ass costume at Party City two days after Halloween, you can't be too picky. I just hope I still have balls after I take this fucking lace thong off. I finally see the bright blue can of tasteless fat-free whipped cream that Mitchell the senseless health freak bought for the ice cream challenge we ended up not posting and I grab it and shake it up. Goes real nice with the white lacey frills on my skirt. Maybe Rob's fancy ass design skills are rubbing off on me. I should get that checked out.

"Mitch?" There's no answer and I bet he's got his ear buds in so he can't hear me anymore. "Meeeetch?!" Yep, nothing. This's even more perfect than I thought it'd be. I pull the little mini-sleeves back up to the middle of my biceps because they can't fit up over my shoulders and I loosen up the ribbon in the corset part in the front so my nips won't hang out. Don't wanna give him too much too soon, ya know? I shake the whipped cream up a little more and walk into his office, silently shutting and locking the door behind me. No need for Alex to walk in and ruin our fun times.

Mitch is wearing a half-zipped hoodie and swim trunks and he's slumped forward on his desk with his hand holding his head up and his dork glasses on so he won't have to squint at the screen. He's still doing off-camera grinding for something on the How to Minecraft server and I bet fifty bucks he's doing whatever it is on our side of the map, the sneaky bastard. If it wasn't for him and his little troop of minions, the two sides'd be at peace, at least until Preston and Kenny got something up with their asses and decided to go conquer the whole fucking world again. I carefully balance the freezing cold can of whipped cream between my thighs under the skirt and slowly walk up behind him, putting my hands on his shoulders and givin' 'em a good ol' rub. He leans back into it like he likes it for a second, then he turns and looks up at me with those big, light brown eyes and an evil little grin. If that's not guilty looking, I don't know what is. That's when he sees my dress and my white thigh-high stockings and his eyebrows shoot up in confusion.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jerome?"

"Can't a Bac just be nice to his Benj for a day?"

"You're standing in my office half-dressed in a silk maid costume. What do you want?"

"You know what I want, sugar daddy. I want you to be my candyman." He looks me up and down and he laughs. But he likes what he sees. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes his glasses off and turns to log out of the server and, sure enough, the chat log is full of notifications of him and Sidearms crossing back and forth to our side. Goddammit, Mitch.

"Fine, I'll play, but we're posting it on your second channel."

"We can't post porn on YouTube, Biggums. You wanna get us kicked off?" I slowly reach for the huge lump under the apron and his eyes follow. In less than a second, the black and white skirt is lifted up and there's a stream of watery whipped cream shooting up at his face. I get a pretty good squirt on his chin and across his nose before he can get his arms up to protect himself. Good thing he has about fifty of those Benja hoodies layin' around – he's probably gonna need a new one. He uses the side of his hand to wipe the foamy cream out of his eyes and he looks up at me as he licks it off, daring me to shoot him again. "You like that, Mitch?"

"It's positively scrumptious! I'm just not sure what all of _this_ is." He nods toward my misshapen, scratchy, revealing uniform and I run my hands sensuously over the front of the costume, taking the chance to pull the thong a couple inches to the left to free my quickly rising boner. I can't feel anything else down there, which is never a good sign. At this rate, I'm gonna need silicone ball implants, too. He snatches the whipped cream away from me and stands up and sprays it directly in my face so I'm completely covered in the nasty, drippy dessert topping.

"You fucker! You got it up my nose!"

"Well, it's everywhere else, so I thought it was just fitting. Now you have some for later."

"No, lick it up!"

"Hell no! I'm not going to pick your nose with my tongue!"

"Why not?! I do it all the time!" Before I have a chance to wipe it away so I can open my eyes, I feel his arms around my hips and his breath on my neck as he moves in and starts sucking on my collar bone. Slowly, he moves closer and closer until our bodies are pressed flush against each other, and I feel his warm tongue gently cleaning the globs of melting whipped cream off of my cheeks and jaw. I can feel the friction of his tongue running against my beard and little pin-pricks as his patchy stubble grazes my skin. He locks our lips together and the usual battle begins. This guy is a fucking aggressive kisser and I can already tell he's gonna suck my face halfway off before I walk outta here. We're pressed so firmly together now that he's pushing me off balance and he takes advantage of that and pushes me back against the wall by the door. Well, any chance I had of winning this is officially gone. I already lost the Hunger Games and we just got started.

"You taste good," he murmurs as he latches back on my neck and pulls the top of the too-tight costume down to pinch my nipples. He knows nobody can see the marks down there if I'm wearing a t-shirt. I'm gonna get him back for this. Eventually.

"That sweet enough for ya?"

"Mmmm." He licks up the drops of whipped cream on my chest and gently sucks on the spot before he bites down. _Hard_.

"Fuck. Can you take it easy on me for once?"

"Where's the fun in that?" he laughs as his hands trail down my hips and start kneading my ass through the flimsy miniskirt. His fingers pull at the spikey fucking lace thong and it's like he's flossing my cheeks with barbed wire. I never thought I'd say it, but I'd rather have him do whatever he's gonna do than wear this piece of shit for two more minutes. How do girls wear this crap all the time? He latches on the other side of my neck and starts leaving a little trail of love bites down my chest. That's gonna leave a mark or twenty.

"You better hope I never get arrested for anything. If they see all these bruises, they're gonna come arrest you for boyfriend abuse."

"You signed up for this. If you wanted smooches and cuddles, you should have gotten another girlfriend."

"Fair enough." He slips his hands under the back of the skirt and starts feelin' me up good and proper. By now, he's grinding against me hard enough to make my thighs burn where the seams of his shorts are rubbing against the bare skin. He's really into this, isn't he? I'm too busy enjoying the feeling of him massaging the feeling back into my balls to notice what he's doing until it's too late. There's a little poke and a loud hissing noise and before I know what's happening, I have a stream of cold, liquid-y whipped cream running up between my cheeks and dripping down my thighs. "Holy shittin' fuck! Why would you do that?!" He jumps away with a laugh and shoots some cream in his mouth before setting the can down on his desk and walking haughtily back over to me like he owns the place. He has me and he knows it.

"Whachoo wan', sweetness?" he whispers as he gets closer and closer to my face and finally places a gentle kiss on my lips. He seems so sweet and flirty but it's all downhill from here. He holds my hips in place and pushes me flat up against the wall and I take the chance to try to redeem myself a little bit. I slowly move my hands downwards until they're down the back of his shorts and I've got two handfuls of his ass. He gives a little moan and I make sure to leave him a couple of marks down below. There're very few things better in this world than feeling Mitch flinch while he's got his tongue jammed down your throat. He gives in and I push his tongue out of my mouth and take over his, instead. He needs to learn to back down every once in a while and drop this hypermasculine bullshit.

I can still taste the remains of the whipped cream at the back of his mouth and as I wrestle his tongue to the bottom of his mouth, his hands move from my raw, sticky ass up to the middle of my back. Did I actually win this one? That's different. I slowly slide my right hand out of the back of his shorts and move it to the front to massage his hip bone. Slowly, slowly I slip it into the front of his shorts and I feel the soaked spot where his dick is rubbing against his boxers. He tenses up but doesn't pull away and I carefully rub his tip through the thin fabric. He lurches forward like he wants more, then he restrains himself and holds himself back. It's gonna be a while yet before he trusts me. I start stroking slowly then faster and harder and rougher. He melts against me and stops fighting me, his fingernails digging into my bare back where the maid costume has slid down. He's panting into my mouth and squirming against my touch like putty in my hands when I fuck up and go down too far. It sends a jolt through his body and he jerks away with a look of annoyance on his face.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine. Let's just do something else. I'll be back in a minute." He puts his hand on my waist and steers me away from the door, peeking out into the hallway to listen before he leaves me alone in the empty office. It's a lot warmer in here than when I got here. Guess I did something right, at least. I stand back against the wall where Alex won't see me in my maid get-up if he walks past and I prepare to throw Mitch's discarded pool towel over myself when I hear footsteps coming closer. It's just Mitch, and he's balancing a stack of containers against his chest as he closes and locks the door behind himself. "Look what I found."

"We're not gonna do a Death Cup, are we?"

"Heh, no. Not when you look this delicious." He puts the stack down on the desk and grabs the top container – the box of blueberries from the magical fridge. I swear, he loves that goddamn fridge more than he loves me. "Open up, sweetness." He drops a handful of cold blueberries in his mouth and pushes me back up against the wall, pressing our lips together and slipping them one by one into my mouth. The bitter juice explodes on our tongues and it makes my mouth water even more than it already is. It's like the final scene from the Hunger Games. If it wasn't Mitch, I'd say it was almost romantic. Is there anything he doesn't taste good with? It feels too soon when the berries are gone and he's pulling away again. Next, he grabs the box of Cinna Stix from dinner last night and pulls out the little tub of frosting and grins at me with that devious look he always gets when he's got a plan. I don't know if I like this or not.

"Mitch, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Biggums. Come here for a second." He reaches out and grabs the front of my costume and pulls me over to his computer chair, making a couple of the threads pop in the seams around the shoulders. Damn cheap thing'd probably explode if I'd actually tried to put up a fight. I let him steer me into the chair and I watch him warily as he kneels down in front of me and pulls up the front of my skirt. Holy shit. We're gettin' somewhere today. He pulls the thong from hell off to the side to reveal my hard-on and my whistling balls. I'm never wearing that fucking thing again. His warm hand starts massaging the throbbing flesh as he grabs the little white container of icing and starts dribbling it down over my cock. It's so cold it stings, but it doesn't last long. Before I can blink, he's down between my sticky thighs with his hot, rough tongue lapping up the sugary treat.

"Ungh… Mitch… You're so fucking good." I look down and catch him staring up at me with those big hazel brown eyes that always make me melt. His teeth scrape against my head and it sends a shiver down my spine. It's so hot it's like my dick's on fire. He hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking gently on the tip, slowly moving it deeper and deeper into his mouth. And he said he's never done this before. I somehow doubt that. My head automatically leans back against the headrest on the chair and I catch the sound of him rubbing himself off down on his knees. Damn, he's really going at it. Between the sound and the sucking pressure and the feeling of his sharp, white teeth… I can't hold it in anymore. "Mitch, I-I'm…" He doesn't even have the chance to pull it out but it didn't seem like he wanted to. Fastest fucking blowjob in the history of the world. This guy literally has me by the balls.

He continues sucking me dry as I release and every movement feels so good it's like torture. He licks up every drop and I see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows it all. He moans quietly around my cock and he tenses up and leans his crotch towards the floor as he gets off, too. His teeth gently close around my dick as his body shakes and I can feel his heavy breathing on my base. Maybe all that gay porn on his computer finally paid off. He grabs my wrist and pulls me down on the smooth wood floor next to him, both of us breathless as he peels the top of my maid uniform off.

"You taste good," he mutters as he unzips his filthy hoodie and throws it on the floor by the door and leans in to lock lips with me again.

"So do you."

"You haven't tasted me yet." 'Yet'? Wow. So we really _are_ getting somewhere with this. Wait, does he mean _now_ …? How many times can he get off in a row? I know some girls can do it like three or four times a row but… can he still do that? While I'm trying to figure out what he said, he reaches up and grabs the last container from the fridge and peels the lid back. The shock of the cold, chunky yogurt on my bare chest brings me back to reality and I see him leaning over me with the plastic cup turned upside down as he squeezes the purple blackberry cream all over me. Maybe I like his shitty health food, after all. He straddles my legs and starts lapping up the fruity snack, and I'm surprised at how wet his thighs are through his shorts. Looks like that's an adventure for another day.

"Damn, you're good." He leans up and kisses me, teasingly thrusting some of the disgusting chunky yogurt in my mouth. He laughs as I scrunch up my face and try to make myself swallow the nasty shit. Everything was great until he did this to me.

"You like that, sweetness?"

"Fuck no."


	36. Poison (Chipotlan)

**Warning: Do not read this chapter if you are a smut virgin or if you try to avoid sexually explicit content. This chapter is loosely based on the song "Poison" by Groove Coverage, in case you need some bad electronica to go with your burrito smut.**

* * *

Here we are again, like a dozen times before. The light from the screensaver reflects off of the shining foil dress covering every centimeter of your perfectly sculpted body and every second seems to last longer than the second before. My fingers gently trail over your smooth length and the simple touch warms my body and wakes up my tired soul. I can't wait any longer and I gently peel back your delicate lingerie to reveal your soft, supple skin. This is the best show I've ever seen and you're barely even trying.

I run my tongue slowly up the side of your warm, sweet shaft and the simple act makes my mouth drip like a waterfall and my cock ache like it had been turned into Stonehenge, dangerously placed and ready to fall. I move to your tip and start gently prying your entrance open. The smell of your spicy juices drives me to the brink and I just want to shove all of you in my mouth at once. I've never seen anything this perfectly perfect before and I need you to be mine.

I dive right in, knowing you don't like to be exposed like this. Your fragile tortilla bends to fit the shape of my mouth and cheeks as I carefully open your folds and clean you out. The tangy mixture of salsa, sour cream, and guacamole smears across my face and runs down my neck as prickly grains of wet rice spill down onto my bare chest and tickle the inside of my nose. Nothing can rival this feeling – no man, woman, or thing can make me feel the way you do, love. I just hope you enjoy this as much as I do. I know we're a little different in that department but you still fulfill your life's purpose, right? No matter what, you always come back to me, more perfect than ever before.

You take my breath away and I just can't stay away, even though I know you're poison to me. You get a thrill out of my pain, don't you? You laugh when my blood runs cold without you and when I lay alone at night in my bed back home without any way to meet you for a little game. I can hear you calling but there's nothing I can do when I'm so far away from you. But the burning! The beautiful burning I feel when I finally get to see you again! The way your hot juices sting and the way your steaming flesh scorches mine… I can't get enough. I always need more. You're a cruel mistress but you're so addictive I can't stop. I always need more. Just one more taste, one more night, one more rush.

It doesn't take long before your sweet, delicate shaft explodes and I follow immediately behind you, savoring the salty, spicy, cheesy mixture of your fluids as I come down from my high. I won't be here much longer and it becomes harder and harder to make myself pack my bags every day. Three weeks wasn't anywhere near long enough and it never will be. I'm willing to move my entire life here to the States for you. I'm willing to lose my title as the top Australian gaming YouTuber for you. I'm willing to risk having Trump as my king for you, bae. What do you think?

You like that don't you?

* * *

"Hey, Lachlan? You said you were getting up at ten to help us clean the house for the repair guys." I pound on the door to his room and there's no answer. Damn it, Lachlan. It's bad enough that I have to babysit Jerome all the time. Why do I have to take care of your ass, too? "Lachlan! Come on, dood! We have work to do before Jerome climbs back in bed for the third time."

"G' eee, Miiit."

"What?" I carefully turn the door knob and I find that it's locked. Fair enough, but he acts more and more suspiciously every day. What is he going to do when he has to fly back home at the end of the week? Does he act like this at home, too, or is it just something that he graces our house with?

"Go away, Mitch. I don't feel good." I open my mouth to answer him when Jerome pokes his head out across the hall and beckons for me to join him in his room. He silently holds his phone out for me to see something on his screen and he's trying to hold back his snorts of laughter. There in the middle of the screen is a picture of the Chipotle chili pepper with a bold black headline running underneath it: 'FDA Investigates New Multistate Outbreak of E. Coli Linked to Chipotle Mexican Grill Restaurants.'

"Rejected," Jerome snickers as the muffled sound of pitiful moaning fills the upstairs of the house. "Looks like Lachlan's not gonna make his flight on Thursday."

"He doesn't sound too happy about that."

"Meh. He'll live. He clearly didn't wanna leave, anyways." He gets up from his fugly postmodern couch and gently steers me to the side to walk over to Lachlan's room. He looks up and grins at me as he slides another of his series of gift cards under the door into the dark room, a burrito wrapped in a shining silver wrapper printed on the front. That is the most sexual-looking burrito I have ever seen.

"You're such an asshole," I laugh as I follow him downstairs to start cleaning up the last three weeks of filth from us neglecting our chores, no thanks to Lachlan the invalid.

"At least I still have one, Mitch."


	37. One Burrito (A Chipotlan Poem)

One burrito,

Two guacs,

Three hours,

Four paramedics,

Five grand,

Six days,

Seven milligrams,

Eight fingers,

Nine stitches,

Ten outta ten.


	38. Cigarettes 'n Boats (Sequel to Woof)

**This chapter is the sequel to "Woof," just bringing it to its logical conclusion. Loosely based on the song "Cigarettes n Boats" by Approaching Nirvana.**

* * *

"Are you sure you are going to be okay by yourself?" Jay asks as he opens the door to my filthy apartment and tries not to look into the dark pit of despair inside. I honestly can't blame him; I don't want to see it, either. I nod and hold my hand out for the keys, and he peers into my eyes, searching for something. "I mean it, Rob. I'm only going to the store and to Dad's house. I'm coming back to get you in less than an hour. The doctor said you can't stay by yourself, and if I see any needle holes, you won't even be going to the bathroom by yourself. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father. _Je comprends_. _Je vais conduire_."

"Pack up all of your crap for the week before I get back, and we'll sit down with everyone and explain everything, okay? All of us are going to get through this." He pats me stiffly on the shoulder, not sure what else to say. I nod solemnly at him and he waves half-heartedly at me, not wanting to turn his eyes away from me as he leaves. I don't trust me by myself, either. I slowly close the door and lock it, walking slowly across the trash-covered floor to the patio door to open the blinds and let the light in. I haven't paid the electricity bill in months, and I have no reason to think that they would miraculously turn the lights back on for the holidays. It takes me a few minutes to gather up the courage to turn around and face the music. A thick wave of nausea flows over me when I do.

The stench of corruption and decay, urine and mold is as strong as it has always been, but after being out of it for three weeks, the odor is powerful enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know that isn't the only reason I'm crying. Empty beer and vodka bottles litter the floor and there is a mound of shredded cigarette packs in the middle of the living room rug. Whatever did that, it wasn't me. Month-old pizza crusts linger on the table and in their boxes on the countertop, filling the air with the sharp, tart scent of organic rot. Even the flies have moved out. How have the neighbors not smelled this and disappeared into the hills or, better yet, burned the whole thing down? The only thing this scene lacks is an actual corpse in the middle of the stage – it already smells of death.

The most haunting part of my homecoming wasn't seeing the trash I had become or smelling my spiral into addiction. The alcohol bottles, the cigarette butts, the vapor trails, the smoke stains, the acid holes, the glass shards, the blood drops, the needle containers… They all brought back memories, but nothing can compare to the collection of burned, melted, bent, twisted spoons and chemical-filled soda cans tucked into every nook, covering every surface. When Nooch lost his touch and faded away, Choco came out to play, and he wasn't as sweet and innocent as everyone made him out to be. They had a reason for calling him Krokodil overseas – he will eat you alive. They changed his name from Bodil when they changed the formula, when laughs and highs turned to zen and chill. He brought that easy, cheap, reliable numbness he promised, but the cost was too high to bear. He industrialized my thoughts, commercialized my humanity, devoured my soul, mutilated my body. That bright, beautiful yellow was the most toxic thing I had ever set my eyes upon and lo and behold! as soon as I get released from rehab, I crave his company again. I am his slave and he smiles knowingly and reassures me that the risks are low, that it would never happen to _me_. He tells me I am invincible to his evils as he sizes up how much meat I have left on my bones and decides how big of a meal he can get out of me.

He lies. Every word from his mouth is a lie. He offers no comfort, no high, no solace; all he brings is terror, lows, shame. The others may have picked away at my soul and rotted away my mind, but Choco picked and picked and picked at my skin and rotted my flesh away in chunks and sheets. He took away just enough pain to hide the horrors of his gift, just enough to cover up what he had done to me. Even after going three weeks without seeing his face, he sweet-talks me to come back even though I am still paying his debts. There is no apology or penalty, no treatment or drug that will give me my arm back. He doesn't apologize; he just promises that next time will be different, that spending the hour with him will make the pain go away. All lies.

I walk past him and his potion shop of bottles on top of the counter and head to my room to start packing, slipping the keys in my right front pocket to keep myself from losing them. I won't be using my left side much now, not that I have been able to for months now. What started as a small, black spot right inside my elbow soon became a line of pink, peeling skin down the inner side of my arm. It spread quickly, before I could know what was happening and before I could work up the nerve to go to the clinic to stop it. Within weeks my hand had gone numb and my fingers curled in and became difficult to move, slowly freezing in place and crumbling away. The tiny black hole grew and grew, trying to swallow me up whole, surrounded by an indentation of dying pink flesh and oozing white fat. It wasn't until the layers of skin and muscle began to fall away in the shower and revealed the greying, rotting bone that I reached out to my brother the doctor for help. I can see why he was always the favorite. He flew home the next day and half carried me to the emergency room, where they took one look at my face and scheduled me for surgery. They had seen my kind before. They knew there was only one treatment.

The feeling of them tapping on the dead, hollow bone with tweezers and carving into the putrid flesh with scalpels – all I felt were vibrations in my shoulder. It had spread that far that fast. They didn't use anesthesia to scrape the melted flesh away or saw through the bone; there was nothing left to numb. I had become the nothingness I had been seeking all along. I was awake the whole time, watching the concentrated, detached faces of the doctors and Jay's blank, pale face. He felt more pain than I did, watching the younger brother he had sworn to look out for fall apart in front of his very eyes. No, my arm was cold, stiff, hollow, dead, just like me. All of this took place three weeks ago and the gangrene, the blood poisoning, the nothingness has spread farther every day, even without Choco's bribes and bargains. I smell like a hospital floor, like bleach and antibiotics, barely covering up the stench of quickly dying flesh. I can still feel my fingers even though two of them had rotted away before I reached for the phone to call for help. I barely recognize my yellowed, sunken face as I walk past the mirror, my eyes locking on the empty space where my arm used to be and the pinned up blue sleeve attempting to cover the shrivelled, dark red stump remaining. The decay continues as the drug circulates through my blood, no end in sight.

I have found my own purgatory on Earth and I will die a thousand times before Choco's gnarled fingers will decide to stop my heart. My blood poisons my body and my fear embalms my mind. He has a hold on me so strong that he can still tempt me even after everything he has done. My body is no longer mine, but I can't let him rot away Jay's heart and soul anymore. After everything I have put him, Mom, and Dad through, I owe them enough to not give in to his veiled taunts and empty promises. I can spare them from watching me fall apart during the holidays.

All I can do is end this for good. I can do the right thing for once in my miserable, worthless, empty life. I grab the metal cigarette lighter on top of my dresser and walk back to the collection of chemicals awaiting me in the kitchen. I flick the wheel, once, twice… The bright blue flame flickers as it sails through the air and lands with a sickening explosion between the bottles of industrial cleaners, lighter fluid, methamphetamines, and cracked over-the-counter pills, things that are still coursing through my bloodstream. Within seconds, I can't feel anything anymore, not even my phantom fingers.

I just wish he was a living, breathing person so I could make him suffer as much as I have.


	39. White Christmas (Poofless)

**The sequel to "Stage Four," centering around the song "White Christmas" sung by Bing Crosby. Happy holidays!**

* * *

 _I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,_

 _Just like the ones I used to know._

 _Where the treetops glisten,_

 _And children listen_

 _To hear sleigh bells in the snow._

The sound of the cheesy Christmas song playing through my phone's speaker puts a fragile smile on his face as he finally closes his eyes, his hand barely holding onto mine. He won't admit it, but it's getting harder and harder for him to be awake, and the pain medications do less and less to help him through it. To his credit, anyone else would have given in long ago and just closed their eyes. Not Preston. Never Preston. He never backed down for a moment, even though the war was lost long before we knew the battle had begun. His hand slowly stops trembling as he falls asleep against my chest, pressed as close to me as possible to stay warm. The song plays through five, ten times before the clock on my phone shows that it is finally midnight on Christmas morning, his favorite day of the year.

I study his peaceful, pale face, with his purple-blue lips curled in a gentle smile. I make sure his eyes are closed and his heartbeat has slowed before I reach over and turn the dial on his ventilator, watching the rubber billows forcing oxygen into his lungs slowly deflate. His chest sinks one last time and I feel his pulse weaken, weaken weaken… and stop. I know I'm selfish for letting him go, stroking his thinning hair as he gradually slips away from my grasp. I couldn't watch him suffer any more. It took death wearing down on his body and soul to get him to admit that he needed help, that he needed warmth, that he needed comfort and love. Here lies the world's most stubborn man in all of his selfish glory and undeniable beauty.

I never thought I would mourn Christmas coming to an end. I was never one to celebrate it, not like my extended family does. One oversized, commercialized holiday was always enough for me; why add another one? There is just something about his childish delight and innocent hopefulness that makes it so appealing. He draws me in with his too-bright chestnut-colored eyes and his seemingly endless collection of Christmas hats. Who could resist something that makes him so happy?

He still calls me the Grinch, even after I gave in to his demands and took him out with his oxygen tank to buy a real Christmas tree. If I had ever had a job, it was getting that god damned thing home for him. I spent half an hour tying the rope through his car windows to keep it on the roof on the way to his condo, and even longer trying to maneuver it up the stairwells to get it inside. He laughed so hard when I finally got it through the door that he made himself sick with a coughing fit, then he kept laughing afterward. He laughed even harder when I tried to put the fucking thing in the tree stand and realized that it was too tall for his condo, just like I told him it would be. It carved a line in the ceiling and rained needles down on us before I managed to get it back down on its side. I had to use a butcher knife to saw through the trunk to cut the top off while he filmed it and posted it on Twitter for the world to see. He is so proud of that ugly damned trapezoidal tree, even though it looks like it is standing upside down and has the angel tied to its side with twist seals and ribbon. He even moved his bed permanently to the couch so that he could watch the lights and enjoy the fresh pine scent when he thought I wouldn't see him taking his oxygen mask off. He knows he will win every fight against me. He knows I will give in. Even after the whole tree ordeal, he still calls me the jobless Grinch with a smirk and a kiss.

Of course, Preston would be the one to use Scotch tape to fix a sprig of plastic mistletoe to the ceiling over his spot on the couch. How he can still call me the cheesy one after that first stolen kiss? His doctors weren't pleased with our arrangement, telling him that he should 'avoid exchanging bodily fluids' to prevent him from developing an infection with his weakened immune system, advice that they never would have given him if he had had a girlfriend instead of me. He was never one for playing safe, or for following the rules. He never listened to his parents, to me, to the game developers, to the doctors… He made it this far on his own volition, his own willpower. He was at the same time a perpetual kid, still enraptured with a child's endless wonderment, and a grown man, always searching for a hero's brilliant strategy. His plans and dreams all fell apart in front of his eyes, but he never stopped planning, dreaming, scheming.

It feels like I have been here forever, tangled up with him in his mound of blankets and unwinding his collection of cords and tubes in the dim light of the Christmas tree. But it somehow feels like it has been no time at all. It feels so real, so tangible, so sweet, but it also feels like it happened to another person in another place during another lifetime. Two months have never flown by so quickly. He needed me here and I needed to be here with him. He couldn't handle being in the hospice anymore and there was too much going on at his parents' house for him to stay there. They tried to take him from me, to make me feel guilty for taking advantage of him, corrupting him. They didn't see this coming like we did. They never thought that he would choose me over them. They don't understand that I will do anything for him.

I brush his dull, brittle hair out of his face and run my thumb across his ice cold cheek before I press a gentle kiss to his forehead and hold him closer than ever. I can't stop the tears any longer. There is no one left to hide them from. I lace our fingers together and reach under my pillow for the cool, smooth metal hidden there, the sharp edges grating against my quaking fingertips. I unlock the safety, just like he showed me when we took it with us to the shooting range for banter. I nestle my head into the familiar crook of his neck and take a deep breath, closing my eyes and letting his song overtake my mind. I only have one last gift to give him. I shakily hold the mouth of the pistol to my temple and wait for the ending of the song to come, the air catching in my throat as I try to hold it together for just a little longer.

 _I'm dreaming of a white Christmas_

 _With every Christmas card I write._

"Merry Christmas, Preston."

 _May your days be merry and bright,_

 _And may all your Christmases be white._


	40. Peppermint (Pooflespresso)

**Warning: This chapter is not for smut virgins or anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit content.**

* * *

"You wanna coffee?" I turn away from the monitors and see Preston standing at the end of the bar with his phone in his hand and his messy bedhead covered with a fire beanie. He definitely looks and sounds like he just crawled out of bed, something you wouldn't expect from him of all people at three in the afternoon. He wasn't lying when he said that me flying down for two weeks to visit him would distract him: a lost bet on the H3M server turned into a very long, very loud payment, and before we knew it, we were eating breakfast at the Ranch House café at eight in the morning without a second's worth of sleep. Preston isn't accustomed to going several days in a row without sleep, and his stockpile of Red Bulls has evaporated. He looks absolutely exhausted, like he just woke up at his desk after passing out.

"Yeah, sure. Let me get my shoes and we'll go."

"Go where?"

"Out to get coffee." He frowns and turns around to point behind him on the counter.

"We're not gonna go get coffee. I'm gonna make coffee."

"You're going to make coffee?" He nods and he turns and starts digging through his cupboards for mugs and drink mixes. "Wait, _you're_ going to make coffee?"

"Are you always this dumb or does it just happen when you're stayin' with me?"

"Hey, bro. I'm just saying that I'm a little… concerned that you're going to try to make coffee." He turns on his fancy barista-style coffeemaker and lets it warm up while he gives me a warning glare. Someone is in a touchy mood today. He is such a sore loser in the late, late morning.

" 'Do or do not. There is no try.' It's a freakin' cup of coffee. I've made like a hundred of these. They're really not that hard as long as you don't burn the whole kitchen down like _some people_." He looks at me with wide eyes and a snotty smile on his face while he opens a bag of coffee beans and starts scooping them into the grinder.

"I didn't mean for the dish towel to catch on fire, okay? I thought the burner was off and-"

"Famous last words, dude. You're never gonna cook in my house again, you hear me?"

"So now you're going to-"

"Never. Again. You're gonna be a foodless, jobless man until you climb on a Chocobo and fly back home. I don't care if you burn crap down up there." I'm tempted to push my flight back again to Thursday just to show him how unreasonable banning me from the stove is. Ninety percent of the time, he isn't willing to pause his newest anime obsession to cook, and we would literally eat our way through our paychecks in less than a week if we had to eat out for every meal.

"What about-"

"Eh."

"You-"

"Nope."

"Preston-"

"Nada."

"Microwave." He turns to look at me just so I can see him shaking his head.

"Tuna. You get that little foil baggie of tuna crap Mom sent over and I'll buy you some little Vienna wieners next time we're at the store. That's all ya get."

"Preston, that's dog food."

"Woof, woof." I wait until he goes back to his coffee machine and I sneak up behind him as soon as he turns the grinder on. He jumps when I put my arms around him and I pull him back toward me with my hands on his hips. I see him looking at me warily in our reflection in the glass cabinets. "Fudge you."

"I mean, if you feel up to it already, babe."

"Frick off." He tries to push me off, but I just hang onto him tighter and he gives in with an exaggerated sigh. He won't admit it but he likes when we are close like this. I rest my head against the back of his neck and I just hold him, enjoying the scent of his cologne mixed with the freshly ground coffee. Moments like this make me not want to go home at all. I just wish that moving down to Texas to live with him was a viable option; he refuses to pick up his roots and move in with me, but I won't move to a state that openly discriminates against people like us. We are at a stalemate and it is physically painful to leave him. "Hey, Rob?"

"Hmmm?" I wait for him to say something else, but when I open my eyes to look at him I feel something wet and sticky drip down the side of my cheek and his body starts shaking against my chest as he snickers at me. "Preston. What is this on my face?"

"It's a salty surprise," he cackles and I see him put the bottle of coffee syrup back down on the counter. The label says vanilla, but it smells more like cooking oil than anything that has any business being in a cup of coffee. I let go of him so I can wipe the sugary mess off of my cheek, then I grab the bottle closest to the edge of the counter and rapid fire it all over his face and neck before he can stop me. His mouth opens in horror and he splutters as it slowly moves down his cheeks like tears, leaving sticky trails of so-called peppermint across his skin. "Robert…"

"Yes?"

"Come here, Robert." I clutch the bottle of clear, minty syrup and slowly back away from him, the look of disgust on his face quickly turning into an evil smile. This isn't going to end well for me, no matter how I look at it. I feel like a dog that is about to get a beating for eating out of the trash can. His voice is too calm and kind and I can see the fire burning in his eyes. "Rob, come here."

"No!" He lunges at me and tries to grab my arm to get the bottle of syrup back, but he misses by about half a foot. I keep backing up until I am almost at my computer set-up and he grins at me because he thinks he has me cornered. I run past him to the right and jump up on his couch, watching him crouch down like a cat on the other side of the coffee table, preparing to tackle me if I try to make a run for it. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"You betcha. But if you come here, I'll make it quick."

"I don't want to die."

"Shoulda thought about that before you shot me with that smelly crap. I smell like a medicine chest." I twist the cap of the pump bottle off while I watch him and the smell of menthol rub hits me immediately. "Yeah, it's freakin' nasty. You come over here and lick it off. Now."

"What?"

"I said for you to lick it off! Get your big, dumb butt over here and lick this crap off me. You're too skinny, anyway."

"I don't want this shit in my mouth. Why would you put this in your coffee?" I twist the pump cap back on the bottle and I see him suck a drop of it off of the top of his hand.

"I doesn't taste bad. It just smells like the flu before you stir it in coffee."

"It 'smells like the flu'? Are you drunk, bro?" He ignores me and wipes his hand across his sticky face again before he brings the glob of mint-flavored syrup to his mouth to clean it off. His warm, pink tongue slowly laps up the peppermint while his eyes are locked on mine. I know he is only doing it so I'll walk over to him and he can punish me, but who could resist a face like that? How could someone who is so naturally evil look so innocent and sweet? I slowly climb down from the couch and walk over toward him, watching his eyes watching me as I move. As soon as I come within five feet of him, he grabs my forearm firmly and drags me closer to him like I am a kid who was misbehaving at the store.

"You come here. You're gonna pay for that."

"Ahhhh! Don't kill me!" He starts pulling me toward the hallway and I try to dig my feet in, but I'm wearing socks on a wood floor and he is on a mission to get back at me. I slide pitifully across the floor while he marches determinedly to the bedroom, flips on the light switch, and closes and locks the door behind us. He stands in front of the door and sternly points at the messy bed. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Get on the fudging bed, Rob. You're just gonna make it worse for yourself." When I don't move, he grabs me around the waist and all but flings me over on the bed, sending the giant plastic bottle of toxic-smelling syrup tumbling down to the floor. He grins again and he sits cross-legged next to me on the bed, leaning forward so I can't miss the stripes of congealing peppermint goo painted on his face. "Now you clean this up." Who knew Preston was into food play like this?

"I don't want to. It smells like rotten marshmallows."

"Either you clean it up or you're gonna take the whole bottle at once." He looks satisfied with himself as he leans across me and grabs the syrup pump from the floor, shaking it in front of my face while I try to figure out if it is even humanly possible to ingest that much of something that looks just like hand sanitizer.

"Preston, there is no way in hell I am drinking that shit."

"I didn't say anything about you drinkin' it." He reaches down and starts pulling my pants off and I quickly smack his hand away. That plan is even less physically possible than chugging the bottle of syrup. "Then you better get to work. I'm waiting."

"F-iiine." I sit up and push him down on the bed so I am leaning over him, straddling his thighs. I start at his collarbone and slowly start sucking the thick, oily, fake peppermint off of his skin, earning gentle moans from him while I work. After a day like this, I don't know if I am physically capable of getting on the plane in two days; we were already horny enough all of the time without him adding kink into the equation. I think I'm going to be cancelling my flight, after all. I run my tongue over his slightly scratchy cheek, feeling the tiny pokes of his stubble on my lips. I feel him reach between my thighs and start massaging my balls through the thin fabric of the pants I stole from his closet, and I can feel his jagged breaths on my face when I lock lips with him. I run my tongue over his, covering it in a sticky layer of cough drop-flavored coffee syrup. He groans loudly in my mouth and I smile as I pull away to start on the other side of his face. "Do you like that, babe?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." I punctuate every word with a nip on his already bruised neck, causing him to squirm under me. As he moves, I feel the curve of his boner brush against my stomach, causing him to jump and pull away from the contact.

"Yeah, I do. You freakin' suck."

"So do you." He glares at me half-heartedly and reaches up to force my head back down to his neck. I run my tongue over the sensitive skin while I reach between us and slip my slightly sticky hand down the front of his pants. He whines while I swirl the stray drops of syrup around his tip, and when I move my fingers farther back, he doesn't protest. He flinches away when my fingers brush against his ass, his hole still sore from our little wager last night. I carefully work one sugary finger inside him before he pulls away and grabs the bottle of syrup, holding it in front of my face when I finish with his neck.

"Clean it up." I look between the bottle and his dark, clouded eyes a couple of times before he gently smacks me in the side of the head with the bottle. "Stop being a derp and do it. You know you wanna."

"Your wish is my command, _monsieur_." I pull away and we quickly strip our clothes off, tossing them wildly around the room like confetti while hands and lips continue exploring each other's bodies like it is still our first time. Just like with Call of Duty and Minecraft, he always finds a way to keep things fresh and interesting.

I guide him so he is on his hands and knees in the middle of our bed, sprinkling light kisses down his spine while I pull his thighs apart. He looks over his shoulder at me nervously as I firmly press his shoulders down toward the mattress, but he eventually gives in and rests his forehead on his hands. I slowly, gently start fingering him, watching him tense as I repeatedly press against his bright red entrance. He should know better than to call me names while I am balls deep inside of him. I think that might have been the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time that Preston has ever apologized to me and actually meant it. He hisses in pain and I withdraw my finger, just so I can spread his cheeks as far apart as possible and earn a satisfying whimper out of him. As always, he is going to pay me back tenfold when my turn comes, but for now I am going to enjoy the power.

He shivers and clenches when the cold syrup lands on his sensitive skin. I pump a generous amount of the fake peppermint on him, hoping that his salty, metallic raw skin will make it taste better. I grab his cheeks and roughly grind them together, laughing as I watch him fidget when the sticky mess drips down his thighs and squirts up inside of him. He is panting now, his knees shaking slightly as I spread him apart again and move in for the first taste. He smells like sex, hastily covered up by a large squirt of cheap body spray. The menthol-flavored peppermint mixes with the taste of the lube from earlier and the salty taste of sweat, an oddly satisfying combination. I gradually work inward and I feel the muscles in his legs tense as he tries to pull away. I grab him around the hips and hold him in place, gently stroking his soft flesh with my tongue to try to persuade him to unclench.

"I dunno if we should… Maybe we shouldn't do this." He starts to sit up, but I want to try this with him. I don't want things to get boring between us, and more than anything I want him to trust me. I thrust my tongue into him, pushing it forward into the tight, unyielding opening. He gasps and temporarily relaxes, just long enough for me to move in a little farther. He moans and throws his head back, instinctively pushing back against me to give me better access. I lightly scrape my teeth against his hypersensitive skin, feeling my beard prickle as it brushes across his cheeks. I can feel his pulse through the thin, fragile skin and I wait for his muscles to relax and contract again before I go in deeper. By now, he is a whimpering puddle of sugary love, not even trying to fight back against me. I feel him shift to rest his head back down on his hands to spread himself more and give me full control of him, willingly presenting himself as my toy.

Now that he is starting to relax and he won't try to pull away, I let go of his hips and move my hands so that one is working each of our cocks. I feel his balls brush against my chest while I eat him and I hear his breathing become more and more ragged and uneven with every stroke, every lick. The syrup is long gone but we are still going strong, the sharp scent of peppermint still lingering on his skin and in the air. If he wasn't sore before, he definitely will be now after all of this stretching and biting. I hum into him, my tongue sending vibrations into new, uncharted areas. He cries out into the pillow and his muscles tighten around my tongue and lips before he releases on the already scratchy, crispy sheets, and I follow shortly afterward. Two small white streaks shoot right across the middle of the bed, guaranteeing that we will be changing the sheets soon before we get bright red raw spots on our arms and torsos from rubbing against the dried cum. I grudgingly withdraw from his sweet spot and grab him around the middle, turning him over to rest against me on the less sex-covered right side of the bed. He turns to face me, his eyes searching my face uncertainly.

"I don't know why you worry so much, babe. You are always good," I say gently and he nods slightly, wrapping his leg around me and pulling me into his chest so I won't see him blush. He thinks that acting guarded and stubborn makes him seem tougher, but it just makes him more endearing. He can't hide anything from me.

"Love ya," he whispers as he rubs warm circles on the cool skin on my back, and I rest my head against him, breathing in the powerful scent of peppermint-flavored sex. Within minutes, his hand has gone slack against my shoulder and his breaths have deepened. I have to fight to hold back my laughter as he starts snoring lightly, something he always vehemently denies. I close my eyes to the quiet buzz of the overhead lights and the sighing breaths of the handsome man holding me hostage and preventing me from getting anything productive done.

"I love you, too."


	41. Runner

No matter where I go, all of their eyes follow. I'm not doing anything. I've never done anything. I'm sitting here in the hangar waiting for my delayed flight back home after PAX South, and it just now dawns on me that being here in the southern States right now probably wasn't a good idea. No one will sit within ten seats of me on any side and they pretend not to be looking when I feel their eyes boring into me and I glance up. Their heads turn to stare at me as they walk past and I see three security guards hovering around the entranceway into the main part of the airport. They're all waiting for me to do something so they can point their fingers and say 'I told you so.'

They have the wrong man for that job.

I'm not a terrorist.

Since when did darker skin and a foreign accent equal suicide bomber? I have had my bags checked three times now and they still keep glaring at me from their corners and their chairs, like a homemade explosive is magically going to appear when I wave my wand. Just because I'm from the UK doesn't mean I went to bloody Hogwarts. I didn't know this level of human ignorance was physically possible but leave it to America to prove me wrong once again. I reach into my backpack to pull out my laptop to work on some of the editing I had sworn I would finish before I fell asleep last night. Cards Against Humanity always manages to lighten the mood. I make sure not to look up at the guard on the right as he starts creeping toward me. The last thing I need to do is provoke them and give them a reason to detain me.

The dull, repetitive sounds of the airport are drowned out by the sound of JJ's absurd screaming as he reads a Matt Damon card, followed by several calls for him to please shut the fuck up. I refuse to look up when I see a muscular guy in a starched blue shirt sit down behind me and very obviously turn to watch what I'm doing on my screen. They can look. They can listen in, if they want. I have nothing to hide because I'm not the monster they all think I am. All of the Guantanamo Bay cards in the virtual card game suddenly seem ten times funnier to me, although it is a hysterical kind of laughter, the kind where you're afraid of what will happen to you if you don't laugh. I almost wish I had the guts to wear a hidden camera so that everyone could see how shitty this actually feels – to them, it's all just a joke, a meme, a prank. It's just a prank, bro. They don't really mean it.

But they _do_ mean it. They mean it very much. It isn't that they're bad people; they just believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who doesn't look like them is inherently evil and out to get them. What a horrible way to live. I'm terrified to think of how my life would be if I tried to apply for a temp card like Lachlan did, or God forbid, if I applied for citizenship. They would probably put me on house arrest for five years before they let me into the country. At this rate, I might not even be able to attend PAX South next year.

The guy creeping behind me shifts very violently and pulls his little radio out to report on my imaginary misdeeds. I ignore him as best I can, and I catch myself wondering if they've found some way to look inside my head. Since when has being an incurable pessimist been a crime? If they've started passing laws against it, pretty soon Rob and Nooch won't be allowed into the country, either. I switch over to editing a Minecraft video so that the guard won't accidentally see a terrorist-Vik card and get any bright ideas. I make sure to skip past the premade thumbnail so he won't see my username and start doing an in-depth background check on me online. Perhaps having the same username for both YouTube accounts wasn't the best plan of action. I can smell the nicotine on his clothes as he leans closer, and for once in my life, I wish that I would lose my temper. I wish I could stick up for myself more. This is absolute shit.

One, two, three hours pass and I've finished editing seven Minecraft videos so that I'll have a generous stockpile I can use for Insomnia, or whenever something comes up and I won't have time to record. I want to fall asleep, but the thought of accidentally sleeping through my flight call and having to sit here for even longer is too horrifying. I'll sleep on the plane. I'm running out of things to do now, since GTA and Cards Against Humanity aren't PG enough to edit in an American airport with armed security guards watching your every move. I can't imagine what would happen if the one perched behind me with his feet up saw my in-game character shoot someone or run them over with a car. They would probably use his shiny black tie to hang me from the plane's turbines. I open up a game of generic minesweeper and start to play, getting ridiculously wrapped up in the ancient game.

After an eternity, the clock on the bottom right hand corner finally strikes four o'clock and I shut my laptop down and unplug the power cord from the port in the side of the armrest, carefully coiling it up and stashing it inside the inner compartment of my computer bag. I plug my headphones into my phone and turn on some beats to keep myself entertained. I check around me to make sure I didn't leave anything behind, collecting all of the bits of trash I've accumulated over time. I throw the remains of my pitiful dinner away and head toward the bathroom signs when I feel something hit me in the back and feel my headphones being ripped off.

" – stop when I tell you to stop, you hear me?!"

"Sorry?"

"Don't you give me attitude, kid. Put the bags on the floor and put your hands up. Don't move." The bulky guard on the left grabs my hands and cuffs them behind my back while the two dressed in bulletproof vests and police helmets slowly start unpacking my bags for me, tossing everything aside on the floor. I have never had so many people examine my underwear in one day. Everyone in the airport turns to stare but nobody steps in to help. The cuff-happy guard pats me down and digs my wallet, phone, keys, tickets, and gum out of my pockets and opens up everything. He checks the battery compartment of my phone, tries to pull each of my keys apart, and examines every note in my wallet before he stuffs everything back in haphazardly.

"Looks good. Says his name is 'Vikram Barn' this time."

" 'This time'? Sir, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, ya don't. Sure, ya don't. I bet yer parents're real proud." The guard behind me grabs the items from my pockets while the other two throw the contents of my luggage into black garbage bags for them to sort through again later, and they start dragging me toward the hidden security room behind the custodial closet. I've seen too many of them come out of this door to not know what it is. The guard behind me pushes me roughly past a row of chairs, and my shin connects with the sharp edge of the bench and I stumble and land sideways on my knee.

"He's tryin' to run!"

"No! No, I'm not!" I get back up as quickly as I can and look up to see four black pistols pointed directly at my head. Every bone in my body is screaming for me to run, but I know that that will only give them the motive they need to pull their triggers. I stand as still as I can, staring past all of them at the silver postmodern swirls melded to the wall by the Starbucks. I just bought my food from there. I was just sitting at that table there, waiting for them to make my iced green tea. I didn't think that stale cheese danish would be my last meal. I was a fool to think I'd ever be here again; I shouldn't have been here this time. "I-I'm not running."

"Yes, you are." He smiles as he pulls the trigger, and I hear two more shots after everything goes black.

Why didn't the last gun fire?


	42. Toy Land (Crazy Craft)

**Warning: This chapter and its sequels are not for innocents or anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit content. This chapter is very loosely based on the song "Go Back" by Approaching Nirvana.**

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"I think something is following us," Rob whispers as he peers behind us in the cave with a torch in his hand. How the frick can he hold a torch when his whole body's ultra-flammable? Dumb flower mob. First time he trips he's gonna scream like a siren and call everything in the cave to come get us. Then he'll have a whole lot more than an imaginary Creeper to worry about. "Preston, stop for a second. Can't you hear it?"

"All I hear is a big, whiny baby who's gonna be doin' all the mining by himself from now on if he doesn't shut it soon."

"But Preston-"

"No!"

"I know I heard something."

"Eat a shut-it-sicle and get back to work! We're down here to mine and I'm the only one mining!" He crosses his arms and does his trying-to-be-sassy face, and all I can do is watch how close the torch gets to his shoulder. Dumb pleb's gonna set himself on fire and there's no water down here. Why's he gotta do this to me?

"I found the cave and Vik found the duplicator trees, which I am going to have to somehow talk into growing on your Nether-temperature lawn. The least you could do is come down here with me." I roll my eyes at him and he does that crooked grin he thinks is so cute.

"You know I'm not gonna be in this dimension forever, right? I'm just here until I can come up with something good enough to get my dad to let me come back home."

"I thought you hated The Goodness."

"I do. The Goodness is stupid."

"Why are you trying to something 'good,' then?" I turn and punch him in the arm and the little squeaky laugh he does just makes my day. He better hope he never comes to visit me in the Nether when I get to go back home because I'm gonna spawn kill him so hard just to hear the sound effects. He's like one of Jerome's freaking squeak toys.

"Do you want me to kill you and send ya back to your flower pot? I know Nooch'd be happy to see you." He cringes and checks behind us again when I mention his kidnapper's name. Why's he so paranoid?

"I hate that fucking flower pot."

"Then behave yourself and stop bein' weird." He just looks at me with his big brown eyes like a Creeper and I turn and keep walking. We hafta get more out of this than a couple ruby ores and he's not helping. We walk for a couple minutes in silence before I hear him kick a rock behind us. He's gonna have all the mobs in existence after us if he doesn't learn how to walk like a humanoid.

"Preston… There's something down here with us."

"No, there's not."

"Yes, there is!"

"Then kill it! Prove it!"

"Whenever I turn around, I see it disappear. I don't think I can kill something I can't see."

"Then shut it and keep walkin'. Maybe it'll get bored if you don't let it troll you." He sighs but keeps following me. We only go a couple more blocks before I feel something hard poke me in the side and I spin around to smack him one. But he's mining something back where we were standing before. Sneaky sucker's poking me with his vines and he doesn't think I know it. "Hey, come here."

"What is it?"

"Come here, Robert." He just looks at me but he knows he's in trouble. He stands upright and gets ready to run, like he can outrun me. "I said, come here."

"What did I do?"

"You know what you did! Keep your green, leafy, flowery nonsense to yourself and stop touchin' my-" Something long and hard hits me from behind and I spin around and see it really wasn't Rob. It's a huge stone angel statue wearing a mask and chains and handcuffs and carrying a long obsidian whip. It looks like it's screaming in agony, like it's on fire or something. "What the frick are you?!"

"That's a whipping angel. Preston, we really need to get out of here. If you let it grab you, it will teleport you somewhere and do who knows what to you. This must have been what was following us."

"Can't we just kill it and keep mining?" Rob glares at me as he slowly backs away.

"Sometimes it's better not to kill everything in sight, bro. Do you want it to call more?"

"You don't know it'll do that."

"We know zombies can communicate, so why would…? Preston, don't!" I unsheathe my sword and run at the demon angel to murk it, but its whip's way, way faster. Before I know it, I'm laying on something soft and fluffy while I curl in on myself to make the stinging stop. The freakin' thing whipped me right on the inside of my right thigh and it burns like someone just sprayed water on it. A couple seconds later, there's another loud crack and I hear a familiar squeak next to me and the fluffy surface starts bouncing. Rob musta got whipped, too. "Damn it, Preston. Why did you do that?!"

"I thought I could kill it."

"With an iron sword? You thought that you could kill a stone-and-obsidian monster with an iron sword? Are you kidding me, bro?" he groans as he rubs at a sore spot on his lower back and stands up shakily. Guess it liked me better. I can still barely move. "Holy hell. Where are we?" I slowly turn my head to look around and I can't believe what I'm seeing. The ground is a thick, squishy, feathery, fuzzy pillow thing painted rainbow colors and it feels like a waterbed whenever something moves on it. There's a really inappropriately shaped cave over in the distance that looks like it leads really deep in the mountain and I can already see a huge chunk of uranium ore shining right inside the peaked entrance. But I really, really don't wanna go in there. There's some kind of tree-looking tongue thing a few blocks away from us that keeps wiggling back and forth and trying to taste us and I just wanna get outta here and pretend this never happened.

"Where'd it send us?" I ask in a voice much higher than I'd planned. He reaches over to grab my hand to help me up but I just swat him away. I don't need help from a derpy Overlander.

"I think we just found a new dimension." I awkwardly get to my feet and try to regain my balance on the jiggly, puffy surface. I hafta be careful not to set anything on fire – this place'd go up so fast and we wouldn't even be able to see through the smoke. Rob tries to walk a few blocks to get away from the tongue tree but he just stumbles and falls over. His feet sink so deep in the pillow ground he can barely move. It's easy to forget how heavy he is when he just looks like a humanoid. We might hafta cut off some of his hidden branches and roots and stuff before we can get out of here, and judging by the look on his face he knows it, too. I actually kinda feel sorry for him. He spent like three autosave cycles growing it all out after Nooch went psycho on him with a chainsaw.

"Whaddaya think we should call it?" He sits down on his knees and looks up at me in confusion while the tongue tree flickers at us and makes the ground vibrate.

"Well, I would call the whole trip 'horrifying'."

"No, that's not what I mean. What should we call this dimension?"

"You can call it whatever you want. I just want to get the hell out of here. I just want to go back." He tries to get up again and he just falls over and lays there, staring up at the bright pink sky in annoyance.

"Going off the stuff that lives here, I say we call it 'Toy Land'." He turns and looks at me in disbelief and just sighs. The tongue tree flaps around wildly and tries to reach over and lick me. At least someone likes my ideas.


	43. Casual Noochonomics

"What's up, friendo?" Jerome yawns as he stretches his arms up out of the frame on Skype. He looks like he just rolled out of bed at 12:30 on a Thursday afternoon. Must be nice to have someone else do half of your work for you, huh? A liter of chocolate milk would do wonders for him, even more than a pot of coffee. It's a shame that no one ever listens to me.

"Nothing much. Just getting ready to stream. I was wondering if you were up to take on the medium dungeon on your side today. I'll help you out, for one of the loot chests."

"I mean, sounds good, I guess. Hell knows I need gear now. Stupid ass zombie walkin' into lava with all my diamond armor on," he mumbles as he logs onto the H3M server. I get up just long enough to grab the bottle of water on the table to the right of my computer setup, but it takes just one second too long. He turns his head to look at me and his dark eyes widen in horror when he does a double-take. He saw too much. "Dammit, Nooch. You can't be naked on camera!"

"Why not? I've been sitting here for ten hours like this without a single problem. I don't plan on getting up again anytime soon, so who's going to know besides you and me?"

"That's already one person who doesn't need to know! Put some goddamn pants on, dude!"

"Why do you think it's called 'streaming'?"

"It's not _that_ kinda stream, Mat. This is Minecraft, not fucking Omegle. Keep it under the desk." He facepalms and I can see the gears turning in his head while he tries to decide whether or not doing the dungeon with me would be worth the loot. TheDungeonM always wins out. He finally sighs and joins the server, knowing that he can either go along with it, or he can go die in a dark, dingy corner all by himself and lose the rest of his gear to flaming zombies. With a little luck, he'll die while we're in there and I can make it out with the loot chests and everything he brings with him, all according to plan. But I won't tell _him_ that. "Alright, fine. No funny shit, though. You try anything and I'll call Brandon in on your ass, you hear me?"

"Crystal clear, General."

"I mean it, dude. You won't even get near that bridge."

"I know."

"I'm watchin' you, Nooch. I don't trust you."

"I love you, too, man." I can't hold the grin back anymore and he squints at me with his beady little eyes. That beautiful face just makes me want to screw with him even more. I wait until he turns back to the game to find decent armor to use and I carefully reach down under the desk and grab the wrinkled clothes from last night, pulling the shorts up bit by bit while I sprint-jump across the blue bridge to Spawn. I'm going to have to watch his perspective later to get the footage for the GIF.

"I'll meet you at the bridge and we'll head over together in case someone else gets their lazy butt on on time." He's recording this – Jerome never censors himself unless there's a camera nearby. He must not be livestreaming because he didn't do an intro. He legit doesn't trust me. And here I thought we were friends! Does he think I'd flash two livestreams at once? Come on now! "Wait… Do you know where it is?"

"Do you know where it is?"

"Do you know where it is?"

"Do you know where it is?"

"Dangit, Mat. I'm not gonna show you where the dungeon is if you don't know where it is." He's got me there, but there's only one way to handle this: casual Noochonomics.

"I have the coords written down right here, so I'm going either way. The question is: are you coming with me?" I'm crouched just past the trigger line on the red bridge, zoomed in on his name tag in their base and waiting for him to start running toward the dungeon. I only have one shot at this, and I'm not going to lose Mom's spaghetti over a medium-tier dungeon. I did riskier stuff down in the mines with full-diamond armor and the team's only Fortune pickaxe.

"Whaddaya mean, bud?"

"You see, we're at a stalemate here. You don't trust me, and I don't trust you. But if we each make our own way there, the problem is solved."

"What if one of us doesn't make it there?"

"I'll kill you." He goes silent and I see him sneak out of his house and look around for me before he takes off into the Magical Forest of Death. I follow behind him quite a ways, watching his name tag bounce through the trees and around Creeper craters. I scroll to the Ender Pearl and prepare to throw it in case things go south for me. I can't afford to lose any more of the team's good gear, and I don't think Jerome is going to give it back this time if I lose. When I see him stop, I screenshot the coordinates before I crouch and make my way around through the forest so it looks like I came in from another direction. No matter how you look at it, this is a win-win situation for me. Now all their loots belong to me. Forever. "Are you ready to tango, my good friend?"

"I mean it, Mat. No funny business or that's gonna be you." He punches a zombie in leather armor at me and I punch it back at him like we're playing ping pong. He takes out his shining diamond sword and smacks it once and it disintegrates in a flash of flames and groaning. That's Preston's sword. In-ter-est-ing. This just got a whole lot more profitable, and a whole lot more dangerous. I bet he has Brandon on speed dial, if he isn't watching my livestream right now. Let's see how this goes. "Put the Endy Pearl away. You can't use that in here."

"Yes, Professor Oak. I'll be sure not to ride my bike indoors, either." He turns and glares at me in Skype as we run into the dungeon, and I watch him loop behind me and wait for me to pass. He thinks I would kill him this early on. Do I look that stupid? That isn't my job.

"I'll take the left if you take the right. Deal?"

"Deal." But he stays awful close to the center of the dungeon as we clear it, preparing to take me out if I make a run for it. _I'm_ not going to kill him. Not today, anyway. We slowly, methodically clear the dungeon and before we know it, we're standing in front of what looks like a throne room with a zombie in an enchanted orange and purple iron set moaning and growling at us. I head around to the side and I start hacking at the boss and Jerome does the same on the other side. When the zombie focuses in on him, I start inching my way over toward his side, and when the boss reaches a quarter of its HP, I put my plan into action. In one fell swoop, I 'accidentally' knock the Bacca right into the swirling flames and dodge around to the right side of the boss.

"NO! Why?!" He clicks furiously for a few seconds before his in-game character pops and a pile of shining diamond armor floats right above the ground where he used to be. Perfecto. Absolutely perfecto. I scoop up the armor before the flames can get it, and I hurriedly murder the boss and grab the loot crates.

"I got him! I got him! Woooo!"

"GG, man, G-freaking-G. Did you get my stuff, Mat? Or is it RIP?" I don't answer as I turn and dodge around the growing army of mobs spawning behind the throne room. "Mat? Did you hear me? Did ya get my stuffs or is it all RIP in pepperonis?" I barely make it out alive but I still don't answer. That's all the answer he needed. I try to hold back the adrenaline-filled laughter as I see 'PeteZahHutt has joined the game' pop up in the bottom left-hand corner. I head over to the mesa biome, knowing the long way around is my only chance of making it out alive. I'll be a hero if I can pull this off, like Kenny but better. Who needs chests when you have balls?

"Nooch, don't do this," Brandon warns when Jerome adds him to the call, and I see Jerome is hunched over in real life with his face in his hands. Preston is going to throw such a diva shit fit over his lost armor. This is going to be hilarious. Jerome might be on blue team soon, after all. "If you come to the coordinates in chat, we can talk about this. We're willing to negotiate."

"When I have everything and you guys have nothing? Come on. Come _on_!" I crouch between the trees and check around for name tags, but it looks like I'm home free. ChocotheChocobo logs his sweet, feathery, not-yet-OP ass on, too, but I'm not afraid of them. I lurk around the edge of the mesa plateaus and the hills until I can see the side of the bridge at the edge of my render distance. This is it. It's really going to happen. My plan is going to work. I make a dash for it with the Ender Pearl in my hand and I'm already within Pearling distance before Petey tries to jump out and get me like the Boogeyman. Maybe I should start calling him that – slimes do look like giant boogers. "See you, boys!"

"Brandon! Stop him!" Jerome yells, and I bet his life is flashing before his eyes. Seeing the ranting and raving and bitching is going to be almost as good as scoring all of this loot and putting their only source of good gear on cooldown. Brandon closes in on me from the side and I can hear someone else cutting grass behind me, but the Pearl is already arcing through the air.

Up, up, up…

Down, down, down…

Oh, shit.

"Oh, my god," Brandon laughs and I can hear him stop chasing me from behind. He knows it's all ogre. Damn it. Shitfuck. I was so fucking close, too. I teleport to the vertical side of the bridge and I watch the world zoom away from me as my limp body falls into the void. I should have brought more than one Ender Pearl. Next time. I'll remember that for next time.

"Now no one gets it. Yeah, boys!" I cheer and I stand up and do a little victory dance just for their viewing pleasure. As soon as he sees me move, Jerome shrieks and pushes away from his desk and I see Brandon turn his head to watch him freak out on his Skype window. He looks back at me in just my shiny orange and yellow basketball shorts and I just shrug and take my seat, waiting for it all to sink in. I respawn and stare out into the deep blue lagoon to the south of our base, wondering if I'll ever see this beautiful sight again after the server-wide group Skype you can count on happening tonight. Jerome frowns at me and rage quits the game, and Brandon just sighs and shakes his head. "GG, boys. Are you up for round two tomorrow?"

"I'm actually gonna kill this guy. You hear that, Nooch? You ever come back, we'll kill ya!" Jerome declares, like he has any way of stopping me. My own livestream chat – hell, my own team! – can't stop me. How is Jerome the zombie-bait going to stop me?

"Yeah, I don't think there's any room for argument there. You're really going to piss some people off with that." Poor Petey-ZahHutt. He was their only chance and he failed us all. At least he's still smiling. The other guys take it all too seriously, especially Preston the ruthless leader.

"You mean the T-Boners, right?" Nobody says anything, but I can see it in their eyes. I can just imagine the look of resignation on poor Choco's face right now, wherever he is, crying alone in silence. At this rate, he's never going to get OP because he's going to spend the next two episodes cleaning up after this little fiasco. Blue team should be thanking me. "Sounds good. Peace." I leave them to moan and mope over their best armor in the Skype call and I wrap up my stream and my recording. I can already smell the salt in the air. It smells fan-tastic. Vik and Rob are going to be seriously passive-aggressive-pissed at me, but at least Preston isn't on our team. He's going to lose his shit when he finds out that Jerome borrowed his armor to escort me to our doom. RIP headphone users.


	44. Escort (Poofless)

**Warning: This chapter is not for anyone who tries to avoid sexually semi-explicit content. Viewer discretion is advised.**

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"Hey. Come here for a second," Preston says quietly, beckoning for me to follow him over to the side of the ski slope. The others went ahead quite a while ago, tired of waiting for him to slip, slide, and swear his way down the icy mountainside. I slowly coast after him, watching as he ducks under the orange banners roping off the sides of the slope and unsteadily coasts his way into the darkness. It looks like skiing at night might have been a good idea, after all. He has gradually become less snarky as the day has gone on, and now he is almost sweet.

"What happened?" I ask as he perches himself on the side of the slope, his ass sinking a good ten centimeters or so into the powdery snow. He checks around us to make sure nobody followed us before he reaches over and pulls my goggles up to my forehead, carefully brushing the stray snowflakes off of my face in an unexpected display of affection. He rarely does things like this in private, let alone in public. "Are you okay, man?"

"Fine. Everything's fine. I just wanted to thank you for being senpai AF."

"You know I don't mind…" He cuts me off by pulling me toward him by the collar of my ski jacket, the thick fingers of his gloves awkwardly running along the side of my bare neck as they leave trails of melting snow. His breath is soothingly warm against my cold skin and I just want to stay here, wrapped up in him. I don't notice him messing with my snowboard until I hear him click the locks off of the bindings and tug my boots out of the straps. He pulls away just long enough to drag his knees through the fluffy snow to position himself between my legs. He latches back onto me and runs his tongue over my wind-cracked lips while I rub his back through his jacket, wishing that I could somehow feel his hot, smooth skin underneath. He leans back away from me to detach himself from his snowboard and I wish I could save this image to the backs of my eyelids until the end of time. Seeing him in the faint glow of the lights from the ski slope, grinning at me with his deep brown eyes with the pure white snow filling the background… I could stay here forever, the rest of the world be damned.

"What's that look for? You spacin' out on me again?"

"No. I just really like what I see." He laughs and brushes the snow off of his gloves before he crawls back up to continue our kiss, but his hands are significantly lower than they were last time. He starts to play around with the zipper on my ski pants, and I give a snort of laughter as he fails over and over again with his clumsy gloves.

"Oh, shuddup." He strips his right glove off and runs his fingers along my thigh to find the zipper again, finally managing to force it down. It isn't until he gets his icy cold hand in my pants that I realize what a bad idea this might turn out to be. He snickers when I shiver at the sudden rush of freezing air and he makes it worse by pulling the whole thing out into the open.

"Holy shit. Do you want me to get frost bite down there, bro?"

"If you'd stop your screeching, I'd fix it." He looks pointedly at me before he slides his knees back so his face is level with my screaming, shrinking cock, and he raises his eyebrows at me as he slides it into his extremely warm mouth. It feels like he really is made out of lava. I laugh as he awkwardly sticks his cold, exposed hand deeper in my pants, squeezing my balls just to warm his fingers up. I should probably be grateful that he isn't pulling away to put his glove back on. I'm going to laugh if the one, lonely glove flies off down the mountain in the wind and he has to explain to the rest of the guys why he only has one glove now. You don't need to take your gloves off to snowboard. Between the heat, his hand, and his teeth, it doesn't take long before I am running my hands over the back of his neck, trying not to force his head down to take it deeper. Neither of us can deep throat, and the last thing I need is him puking on me and shunning me like a pariah for a week. I see my breath turning into fog around us and I can feel his warmth filling up all of the spaces that had been freezing in the winter air, the heat building up like a hot air balloon in the pit of my stomach. He moans around me, and whether it was because he is trying to tease me or because he is just as close, I can't tell. The vibrations reverberate through my body and I can't help myself – I need to make him mine again. He gasps and gives a small shudder as the sudden warmth fills his mouth, then he sucks on me until the pressure disappears and it feels like he is trying to pop my head off. For him still being so new to this, he is really good.

"You're a pretty fast learner, Preston." I regret saying anything when he pulls away and leaves me to suffer and swing in the bitter wind.

"I learn from the best." He smirks as he fights to get the freezing cold zipper back up, and he laughs as he watches me cringe, remembering all of the videos I had seen on YouTube of guys getting important body parts caught in zippers. He pulls on my arm to try to get me to get up to go with him, but I don't even bother trying.

"I honestly don't know if I can snowboard any more right now."

"Do I make your legs weak, Robbie?" He grabs my inner thigh and pinches me hard through the thick material of my ski clothes, snickering when I reflexively jerk away. I smack him gently on the shoulder and he responds by tackling me back in the snow and he laughs as he leans over me. He holds my shoulders down in the soft layer of snow and presses our lips back together forcefully, forcing a thick mixture of saliva and cum into my mouth. It tastes bitter and harsh, almost medicinal, yet oddly sweet from the hot chocolate he had bought at the top of slope while he waited for me to meet him. It isn't that I haven't tasted it before; everything is just better with him.

"You taste good."

"That was you, you derp."

"No, that was _us_. It was in your mouth." Apparently, me stating the obvious is too much for him because he pulls away with a bashful smile and a blush. I crawl out of my little pit in the snow while he tries to put his forgotten glove back on, reaching up to wipe the fresh snowflakes off of his cheek while he struggles not to look at me. It's funny, watching someone who is always so confident and bold shrink back in embarrassment. I lean over and kiss him again before I adjust his goggles for him and push him over on his ass so I can relock the bindings on his snowboard for him. I see Preston whip his head around when I move him, his mouth open as he gawks. I turn to see what he is looking at, and I see a security officer in a reflective vest leaning against the tree. I want to facepalm and disappear into the trees, but I don't think that is going to help.

"You again. You're starting to turn into a troublemaker. Were you filming this, too?" the guard asks with a familiar smirk, standing up straight as he crosses his arms. Preston is either going to laugh until he hiccups himself into tears, or he is going to be completely and utterly pissed at me for the rest of the trip.

"No, we don't do that kind of video."

"Either way, you know you can't do that here. Don't tell me you didn't know." Preston looks completely mortified and his eyes are probably on fire underneath his goggles. I want to hug him, but I have a feel that I would be soaring down the mountainside if I tried it. Just when he was starting to loosen up, this had to happen. "Come on, get your gear. I have to take you down to the bottom of the slope and escort you off of the course." The guard starts walking back toward his snowmobile, checking behind him to make sure we don't try to take off down the slope.

"Wait, are you banning us from the mountain?"

"Just until tomorrow afternoon, unless you break any more rules on the way down. What can I say? You make a cute couple." Preston groans and I elbow him to shut up. He slaps me a good one across the cheek with his still-not-on-glove and starts pulling me over to the snowmobile while I grab the boards, making sure that I will be sitting in front of him on the long trip down the mountain. I'm glad he isn't too mad at me, but I have a feeling that I am going to have a lot of red skin by the time we meet up with the others.


	45. Pulling Out (Crazy Craft)

**The final part of the "Toy Land" mini series. This chapter is not for people who try to avoid sexually explicit content.**

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"AHHH!" I duck back into the slimy entrance to the cave as I wipe the heavy goo off the top of my head. It crackles and smokes from my high temperature but I can't tell what the burned stench smells like. It just smells burned. I didn't see it was raining out here because it's so dark. But even if I'd been able to see it, I wouldn't've known it was gonna be raining _this_. I turn around and wipe a big smear of the brown stuff across his petals and he just looks at me in resignation like a total pleb. As long as I don't set him on fire or chop parts of his body off, I don't think he cares what I do to him. "Taste it and tell me what it is."

"I'm not eating your mystery goop, man."

"Fudge you." I wipe more of it on his leaves and he flutters them to try to get 'em away from me. There's plenty more where that came from if he's not gonna cooperate. "Eat it, Robert."

"Preston, I am not going to eat that! It looks like actual shit. Pres-ton! Stop!"

"Just eat it so we can see if we can leave or not. The worm's gonna be here to spray us in a second, and lemme tell ya, that doesn't taste good." His many, many sad-looking eyes all blink at me blankly before he sends out a vine to keep me from rubbing more brown paste on him. "Eat it."

"You eat it."

"No, you eat it."

"I'm not going to eat that."

"You're a freakin' omnivore! You eat literally everything, including whole trees and chunks of dirt! Whaddaya think the dirt's made out of? Eat it, Robert." I try to burn his big, dumb vine through the sleeves of my shirt and he just shoves me out on my butt in the gooey brown rain. I'm gonna get him for that.

"How does it taste, bro?" he laughs as he tries to scrape the slime off his weirdly soft petals and wipes it on the walls of the cave. There's a big splotch of it running down the side of my face and I unhappily stick my tongue out to test it. It's sweet and bitter and milky and it makes my mouth water. I've never been so happy to see chocolate in my whole life. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Tastes like crap. Here. Have some." I scoop up a handful of partway solid goo from a fluffy puddle on the ground and chuck it at him like a snowball. His vines and branches all weave really weird to try to dodge it and he somehow gets outta the way in time. I grab another handful and throw it even harder, then another and another and another. Eventually he can't move fast enough and it smacks right into the side of his head and he makes a pitiful groan. "How them apples?"

"They taste like chocolate. I could have told you that as soon it hit you on the head." He does a creepy, toothy grin and slinks out after me, sticking his roots down in the puddles of melted chocolate so he can eat while he walks. What a frickin' weirdo.

"Fudge you."

"Fudge me, bro." I yank on one of the leaves around what I guess'd be his neck and he giggles awkwardly. If I knew he wouldn't try to bite me again, I could sit here and play him like an instrument with all his dumb noises. As good as the chocolate tastes, having orange-sized, squishy clods being thrown at you from the sky kinda hurts and I don't wanna get completely caked in it. I already don't know how I'm gonna get it off and I don't need to get more on me. I head over to the tongue forest to take cover away from the angry red dildo worm in the cave, and I look back and see Rob walking with his giant mouth open while he walks, the eyes around the bottom of his mouth watching where he's going. What am I gonna do about this guy and his landfill of a stomach? Talk about the freaking munchies. He eats like forty thousand calories a day, plus whole animals and a butt ton of syrup. What's he gonna do when he gets even bigger and needs even more food? How's he gonna transform when he gets that big? Is that when flower mobs get mean and start killing people, or is it weird he doesn't do that already? He can't even have a job as a flower mob. There's a loud squelch as an extra big glob lands on the ground next to me and I walk even faster. Last thing I need is for him to decide to eat a chocolate-covered lava mob.

"You about done?" He stands just under the cover of the tongue trees and catches another big one in his mouth before he straightens up to speak.

"Do you have a better idea? Where else should we go?"

"Maybe go try to find the exit? I don't know 'bout you, but I kinda wanna leave." He shrugs and follows me through the trees, ducking low so none of the rough, watery tongues can lick him. They feel weird, and they don't really wanna let go after they've tasted you, even if you burn 'em real good and make 'em wiggle. After we squeeze past like a hundred waving tongues, there's barely any chocolate left on me but I'm all spitty. It's like I just got chewed on by a big, ugly, toothless baby and spat back out. It's grody as frick and the wetness stings. I can see a clearing up ahead with a big metal pole in the middle and I start heading towards it to get a break from the tongues. Probably shoulda thought about why there were no tongues there. I make it outta the drooling forest just fine, but as soon as Rob sticks his big, dumb, flowery head out, a big silver ring attached to a chain comes down and clips itself around his trunk. Then there's two, then three, then five, then ten, all clipped around the thick parts of his body.

"Hey, Preston? I could use a little help." He doesn't sound like he's in a whole lotta trouble so I just stand back against the pole and let him enjoy our new little friend. That's what he gets for lettin' the Butt Creeper get me. He tries to pull the rings off with his vines and he tries to just brute force it through it, but he's still just as stuck. "Preston?"

"I'm just lettin' you learn what it does, Mr. Know-It-All." He does that nervous laugh and tries to break the chains again, and this time they drag him backwards and make a big, muddy ditch in the ground where he tries to hang on. Dang, that thing's strong. It just fished a huge flower mob outta the dirt like it was nothing.

"I know what it does - but I'm not a giant cock. It doesn't work like this. Can you please help me?"

"It's not doin' nothin'. It just wants to be your friend." He doesn't look amused and he tries to change back into a humanoid to get away. The ring monster doesn't like that. Rob starts flailing around like a fish on a hook, trying to shake it off and turn around and bite it. He's too busy trying to fight it to yell at me but I've never seen him flap around like that. That's not a good sign. I head over to see what it's doing and the rings are getting smaller and smaller and digging into his crispy plant flesh. Then things start snapping. "Oh, frick."

"Can you help me, please?" He's not moving as much anymore and I don't know if it's because he's choosing to do that or because he can't move. I head over and climb up on a couple of his lower branches to get a better look at the rings. Even though I watched them come down and clip together around him, there's no hinge anywhere. How the frick did that happen? "Any time now… would be nice!" There's another loud crunch and now he's not moving at all. At least I won't have to worry too much about him flailing around and getting really burned and catching on fire. I channel my core lava into my hand and wrap my fingers around the ring, but all I can do is smell burning wood. Great. How am I supposed to do this? "Pres-ton!" He's so worked up it barely sounds like him anymore. I don't blame him – having parts of your body being broken off probably really sucks. I grab for the chain holding him in place and try to burn through that, making the surface lava hotter and hotter and hotter until my hand glows almost white and starts bubbling. The chain shatters and the metal ring monster shudders and gives him one last good squeeze before it somehow unclips the clipless, liquidy metal rings and pulls its chains back up to the circular pod up on top of the pole. He slumps down and curls in on himself for a second before he stumbles away from the pole and back to the edge of the tongue forest.

"You good? Oh. Wow." There're a couple of branches that're just hanging limply off the sides of his trunk and he doesn't look too happy about it. Maybe coming this way through the tongue forest wasn't such a good idea.

"It's not that big of a deal. I will live." He cringes and reaches up with his vines to snap the dead, broken limbs off and toss them by the nearest tongues. He keeps walking like it's nothing but there're little streams of red and clear sap leaking out where he ripped them off. "Thanks for helping me."

"Yeah." He turns away and returns to his humanoid form, probably so he'll be smaller and harder for the tongues and other weird freakin' things to get him. It must suck to have such a big body, havin' to carry around all that extra weight and not being able to do things and always having to be crammed down in that little skin. Makes me glad to be a real humanoid mob, even though I always hafta be careful not to burn everything down and kill things. I wonder if he ever thinks about this kinda thing. The more his roots retract and the more his outer skin regenerates, the further down in the pillow ground he sinks until he just falls over completely. But it looks like he has it figured out. He holds the dead branches to his feet with little root things so they're like snow shoes and he gets back up on his feet. He still sinks quite a bit and he has to walk really weird, but at least he can walk.

"We should get the hell out of here before something worse finds us. I can't fight something like that, and I would rather not find out what would happen if something doused you in lube."

"Is that like water?"

"Never mind. Let's go." We squish and squash our way through the rest of the drippy tongue forest under the hordes and hordes of creepy sounding birds that came out at suntime. Even putting fingers in my ears doesn't cover up the noise of their bullshrimp. They pant and they hiss and they moan and they scream and make all kinds of other horrible noises. Rob's laughing his butt off and he keeps facepalming at the look on my face when I hear a new one. It's not that freakin' funny! I smack him a good one on the back and I get a big chunk of nasty chocolate stuck on my hand from inside his hood.

"Frick off. I don't like chocolate anymore, and I don't like you."

"I love you, too, Preston."

"I think that cave infected your brain. You got dain bramage and now Vik's gonna be mad at _me_." I get ready to beat him again when I see it: crawling along the ground like it's nothin' special with its antennae up in the air to sniff around. I know what that is. That's what I've been lookin' for. "See ya later, sucker." I see Rob frown at me as I run as fast as I can away from him to the bright pink little creepy crawly bug and carefully cool my finger and put it on its head. I found a cootie. A really squishy cootie. It sucks on my finger with its gooey mouth for a second before it teleports me outta Toy Land and back somewhere in the Overworld with smelly cows and boring green plants that don't usually move and a little pond of dirty water. I just chill there in the field for a minute, waiting for the dumb weed man to follow me. Eventually he shows up, too, with a heavy thud a couple blocks away. Glad he didn't land on me. Freakin' cootie. Frickin' flower mob. Frackin' whipping angels.

"Remind me to never go mining with you again," he groans. And with that, he turns facedown and buries his face in the tall grass like a total pleb. I scrape the last of the goopy chocolate off the bottom of my foot and rub it all over the back of his head and in his hair. He doesn't give a single fudge. We both just sigh and lay there. Nothing's trying to eat us out here.


End file.
